Family: Blood Calls to Blood
by hesadevil
Summary: Spike's actions cause problems for Angel and his friends at Wolfram and Hart. WIP, set between 'Damage' 'Origin'. This is my first attempt at fanfiction and I am learning as I go along, so feedback would be much appreciated.
1. Angel we have a problem

  
**Chapter 1: Angel – we have a problem**

Disclaimer: The usual, none of these characters is mine. I've merely borrowed them for a while, given them a little R&R from ME and sent them back fully refreshed. (Take better care of them this time Joss.)

**  
WARNINGS** – This is written in _English_ English 'cos that's what I am.

**Setting:** Sometime during AtS Season 5, between '_Damage_' and '_Origins_. -**There will be no submarines involved. **

Acknowledgements: Thanks to my fabulous betas **onetwomany, bogwitch**, **late starter** and **kellyhk** and to **ceit** for encouraging me to persevere with this.

This is my first attempt at fiction of any kind.

* * *

"Spike! What the Hell were you thinking of?"  
  
"Try not to do too much of that," replied Spike. "Thinking leads to brooding and Angel does enough for both of us. Anyway, I thought you wanted me to help?"  
  
Spike had a point, Wesley reasoned. That was the trouble, Spike always had a point. Unfortunately, it usually led to Angel's further retreat into the shell that had hardened with Cordelia's absence from their lives. Spike's arrival in L.A. had coincided with a fragmentation of the tightly knit team that Angel Investigations had been prior to their employment at Wolfram and Hart. Angel had become even more morose than usual after his fight with Spike for possession of the Cup of Perpetual Torment, whereas Spike had bounced back in that irritating fashion that was fast becoming his trademark. He'd thrown himself headlong into his own version of _helping the helpless_ each venture resulting in various degrees of discomfiture for the rest of them.  
  
Wesley didn't understand why, or how, but Spike's latest escapade had affected Angel in a way that both surprised and worried him. On hearing what had taken place, Angel had initially merely shrugged and observed that it was 'par for the course' where Spike was concerned. Later that evening, Angel had received an inter-office memo from Eve, apparently spelling out in detail exactly what the repercussions of Spike's actions were. Wesley was used to Angel's brooding but, on receipt of the memo, the older vampire had swung from moody silence to noisy rage. Working out how to impose some form of control over Spike was proving more difficult than Wesley had anticipated.  
  
"Well, yes, we _did_ say that we'd like you to help, but by working _with_ us, not going off half-cocked on your own tin pot one-vampire-with-a-soul-crusade." Wesley reasoned that Spike needed to hear his message in terms that would leave him in no doubt as to the irresponsibility of his actions.  
  
"How many times do I have to _say_ it? Not on any crusade . . . Hang on, '_Half_ cocked?' I never do anything by halves." A slow grin spread across Spike's face. "Particularly if it involves cock . . ."  
The word was cut short by the sudden appearance of Angel at the open office door. He glared at Spike, arms folded, silent, waiting for him to finish his sentence.  
  
"…unlike someone not a million miles away," finished Spike. "Hello Gramps. What brings you to this neck of Wesley's office?"  
  
"Your stupidity, Spike, as usual." Angel's soft voice barely concealed his anger at Spike's latest blunder. He looked at Spike and wondered, not for the first time, why he'd been sent to Wolfram and Hart. All he'd done so far was cause trouble. Not that Spike causing trouble was anything new. He'd done that from the first day Drusilla had brought home her 'knight'.  
  
_Spike, a Champion?_ Angel still couldn't accept it, no matter what Eve told him. "So that's your idea of being a Champion is it? Getting drunk and killing the first demon that happened to get in your way? I think you need lessons in how things are done around here. Unfortunately for me, I don't have the time to give them to you. There are more important matters that need my attention, thanks to you."  
  
With that, Angel turned and stomped away. Spike clenched his jaw. It had only been one measly demon. It wasn't as if he'd torn through the entire demon population of L.A. How was he to know it was the progeny of Wolfram and Hart's most important client? And what was it doing in that bar, disturbing his quiet drink? As far as Spike was concerned, the annoying little bugger had deserved all he got.  
  
Spike hesitated, unsure what to do next. Should he follow Angel to find out just why he was so pissed off about the previous night's bar brawl? Or should he try to pump Wesley for more information on this mysterious client? It took only a split second for Spike to choose the easier option. Winding people up was a favourite pastime, one he'd practised through the decades until he had it down to perfection. It was time to see just how he'd fare doing the same with Angel. 

----------  
  
"Don't you ever knock?" Angel's voice, barely a whisper, choked back his misery. He hated Spike; did not want to see him, not like this. Not one of his friends remembered anything about Connor and he'd be damned if he was going to tell Spike about him. Angel had hit rock bottom, or thought he had, when the implication that Spike might be the one to Shanshu had struck him. He didn't think he could sink any lower. But now he had. Back down to where Holtz had sent him when he'd taken his son away from him.

And he felt himself falling apart.  
  
Spike just didn't know what he'd set in motion when he'd killed Kyuukonki. How could he? Angel alone knew of the deal done with Wolfram and Hart to give Connor a normal life. He'd lost Connor once. Now it looked as though he might lose him again, forever this time. Of all the bars in L.A., the soul-eating demon had to walk in to the one in which Spike had chosen to get thoroughly drunk.  
  
Silence hung in the air between them; cold, empty and barren, no sign of what passed for normal relations between the two vampires.  
  
_This isn't right, thought Spike. He should have kicked me back out of the door by now, or through the window, or something. Anything would be better than this._ Spike closed the door and strode across to where Angel was standing in the fading light by the window.  
  
"Say something, "he demanded. "Tell me what I've done that's so terrible you can't give me the beating you obviously think I deserve."  
  
"Didn't losing your hands teach you anything?" Angel spat at him.  
  
"About what? Taking orders without question? That was never my style Angel, you know that."  
  
"About thinking before rushing in where angels fear to tread." Angel cringed at the pun but it was too late to take it back. He sank into his chair. He had no way of dealing with this. The Memo from Eve had spelled it out clearly enough. The contract demanded blood, his progeny's blood; a life for a life. Renege on the contract and the whole deal with Wolfram and Hart was off, for all of them. How could he explain to any of them that this was all Spike's fault when they knew nothing of the contract he'd signed? "God help me William, what am I going to do?"  
  
"I was just explaining my allergy to thinking to Wes before you interrupted us, but, as you did, perhaps you can clarify a few things." Spike stopped, _Bloody Hell! Last time he called me William, it was Angelus in the driving seat._ Spike swung the chair round to peer into Angel's eyes. " Wait a minute." Spike looked deeper, his blue eyes piercing Angel's brown. "Nope, soul's still intact. Your little shag-fest with Eve the other day obviously didn't do the trick." Spike hesitated as Angel returned his gaze, staring intently at him as if seeing him for the first time.  
  
_So, it's true, thought Angel. You can see the soul in the eyes._ He gazed at Spike. _What lies behind those eyes? What does Buffy see that makes him a Champion to her? She once saw only the killer. What difference does the soul make?_  
  
What did it matter? A soul wasn't going to help them now. What they needed was - Angel didn't know what they needed, that was the problem.  
  
"Just tell me. What's happened that's so terrible you're in no fit state to beat the crap out of me?"  
  
"You proved I couldn't do that anymore the other day," replied Angel wearily.  
  
"Oh, come off it, Peaches. You gave as good as you got. You could have stopped me a dozen times. You just didn't want it enough, did you?"  
  
Spike had hit the target once again. Just where did he get the talent for cutting right through to the heart of the matter? Buffy had once told Angel that you could fool many people, including yourself, but the one person you couldn't fool when it came to your true motivation, was Spike. What _had_ prevented Angel beating him and claiming the Cup for himself?  
  
There was no time to dwell on his failure to beat Spike. His current problem had nothing to do with being a Champion, who deserved the Shanshu more, or what having a soul meant. This was about family and honour, his family's honour. And that didn't just mean Connor. It meant all of them; Wes, Gunn, Fred, Lorne, and, God help him, Spike.


	2. Deal with a Demon

**Chapter 2: Deal with a demon.**

* * *

Angel dropped his eyes from Spike's, closed them and buried his head in his hands. As he watched, Spike was reminded of the awful moment he'd watched Buffy jump to her death; the time when he had openly wept in front of her friends, too traumatised to hide his feelings from those who'd shown him nothing but contempt. Spike had never seen Angel like this before. He felt ill equipped to deal with Angel's sudden loss of emotional control.  
  
_He's coming apart,_ Spike realised; the shock felt almost physical, as if he'd been punched. Perhaps Angel feared for someone he loved very deeply? Nothing else could account for allowing him to witness this slide towards despair.  
  
Spike panicked. "Is it Buffy? What's happened to her?"  
  
Angel was unable to reply, lost again to the numbing dismay that overwhelmed him.  
  
Spike frantically scanned Angel's desk for clues, for anything that might indicate the source of Angel's fear. _1950s clock and penholder . . . T.V. remote . . . empty video case . . . framed photographs._ He picked up one of the pictures. It showed Cordelia, smiling directly at the camera, flanked by a goofy, grinning Angel and a serious, straight-faced Wesley.  
  
_Cordelia. Could it be Cordelia?_  
  
Spike opened his mouth to articulate the thought but stopped as his attention was drawn back to the video case beside the remote. He reached for the controls and, just as his thumb was about to connect with the play button, felt it jolted out of his hand. It skidded across the desk and clattered to the floor.  
  
In the same instant he heard Angel snarl, "That has nothing to do with Buffy . . . and absolutely nothing to do with you."  
  
Spike braced himself for the blow he expected to come next, but it never came. They were interrupted by a knock on the door heralding Wesley's entrance to the room. Without pausing, Wesley strode over to the TV and switched it on.  
  
"You should see this."  
  
News' reporter faced the camera, a microphone in his hand. "As you can see behind me, the whole campus has been cordoned off. The number of bodies taken away for post mortem so far is nine, but the police estimate that there may be as many as twenty more inside the student accommodation block. This particular building is reserved for students in their Freshman year at the college." The camera panned over his head to show paramedics carrying a stretcher bearing a body bag to the nearest ambulance waiting outside the building. "There is no explanation for what took place on the second floor," continued the reporter. "All we know is that all the victims are male. Someone, or some thing appears to have ripped their bodies to pieces."  
  
"A large-scale demon attack coming so soon after Eve's memo. It can't be co-incidence. What do you think, Angel?" Wesley looked away from the TV, at Angel still slumped in his chair, eyes downcast, seemingly oblivious to the news broadcast. Surprised by Angel's lack of reaction to the images on the screen, and sensing something else was wrong, Wesley crossed the room, stopping mere inches away from the silent vampire. His foot came to rest on something on the floor beside the desk.  
  
He froze as the video clicked to life. _Lilah's voice._  
  
"Hey Ace, if you're watching this, then I'm dead, - still. Sorry, couldn't resist, always wanted to use that line. Guess I'm unique in that I got to use it after I died. Seeing his big day must have come as a pleasant surprise? Believe me it took some time to persuade the Senior Partners to let me do this for you. I just thought you might need a little reminder why it would be best if you didn't do anything that might jeopardise his future."  
  
Guilt and anguish flooded through Wesley at the sound of Lilah's voice. He dared not look at the screen.  
  
"That part where he talked about 'helping the helpless'; the conviction that he's doing the right thing. - Got to me, right here. - Gosh, forgot, -you can't see me, hand on heart here. - I digress. - The idealism of youth, so easily corrupted."  
  
Wesley risked a glance at the screen. It was blank, save for the Wolfram and Hart logo in the top left corner.  
  
"Let me just refresh your memory. The Special Client; you know, the one who appears in the Special Client's file? Keep your nose clean where he's concerned. You know what will happen if you don't. You don't? OK, I'll spell it out, directly from the relevant clause in the fine print of the contract you signed."  
  
Wesley struggled to keep his attention on what Lilah was saying. His mind was reeling, fighting to remember. He shot a look in Angel's, direction but he remained motionless, his face betraying nothing of his emotions.  
  
"_We may terminate this contract, or any part hereof, for cause in the event of any default by You, or if You fail to comply with any contract terms and conditions, or fail to provide Us, upon request, with adequate assurances of future performance. In the event of termination for cause, We shall not be liable to You for any debt or service not accepted, or for the continuing maintenance of any Arrangement of any kind, be it mythical, magical or economic, made pursuant to this contract and You shall be liable to Us for any and all rights and remedies as provided by Brehon Law, including payment of the Honour Price by means of Progeny's Blood._"  
  
The television was silenced. Angel, his eyes averted from both Spike's and Wesley's querying gaze, had risen quietly from his chair, hit the standby switch and returned to his seat. There was a slight shift in his features. He'd smelt Wesley's fear and was focussing his attention on his reaction to Lilah's voice.  
  
Wesley had another flash of recall. _Progeny's Blood. - Something about a baby._ He died a little more inside. _- Honour Price?_ The memory was snatched away, leaving just the raw emotions; guilt, shame, failure. He rewound Lilah's words in his head. _How had it begun? 'Special client.'_ Wesley didn't know anything about any special clients. _'Brehon Law?_ What on earth was Angel thinking of, signing a contract with those terms?  
  
"You didn't read the fine print?" he said finally.  
  
"Skimmed it. How was I to know the all-improved-version Champion would show up and complicate things?" muttered Angel, waving an arm in Spike's direction. "The probability of someone killing the demon's son was about a million to one before he re-materialised."  
  
Spike squared up to Angel, who had risen to his feet. "Hey! Didn't ask to be here. Thought I'd done my bit back at the Hellmouth. Was quite content to stay dead. Wish I had."  
  
"Could help you out with that."  
  
"Please don't start all that nonsense again," warned Wesley. "Look where it led last time. This isn't the time for feuding with Spike. We have a bigger problem to solve. You weren't the only one to receive a memo from Eve. Each of us has been reminded of the terms of our employment. Things are changing, Angel. Departmental staffs are beginning to question our authority. We have to work quickly to stop whatever's been set in motion. Judging by that news item, it's the Slaughter of the Innocents all over again. We need to work together if we're to make any progress."  
  
Angel reflected for a moment, then stepped away from Spike. "What do you suggest?"  
  
"I suggest you ask Gunn to start work studying the contract you signed, particularly that clause. It needs interpreting. And, when he's done with that, he might move on to the ones to which the rest of us agreed."  
  
"The contract, right. Good place to start."  
  
"And you might dig out the Special Clients' File."  
  
"Special Clients' File. On it."  
  
Wesley headed back to his office, calling out as he did so, "I'll see what I can find on Brehon Law. And Spike, I'll need as much detail as you can give me on your demon."  
  
Spike decided he'd play nice for a while and was about to follow him out of the door when Angel's voice stopped him.  
  
"Wes's right. We need to work together on this," he said grudgingly. "You owe me that much."  
  
"Don't owe you a thing," replied Spike. "You're the one sold his soul to the devil without putting his reading specs on."  
  
Angel ignored the gibe. "Yes, you do." His voice was firm, steady, and free of the hatred he'd expressed earlier.  
  
Spike turned, considered the change in Angel's attitude for a moment, and made his way back to one of the crimson chairs in the centre of the room. "I'm listening."  
  
"This Honour Price involves my progeny."  
  
"Oh, and that would be me I suppose? What do you want me to do? Hand myself over willingly before we know exactly what's involved? Bugger that."  
  
"Will you never learn to stop interrupting? You're not the only person I sired."  
  
"You mean Dru?"  
  
"Not Dru. There is another."  
  
Spike was intrigued, and more than a little hurt; of course it couldn't be concern for him or Dru that had Angel so worked up. There had to be someone else; someone who meant much more to him than either of them.  
  
"It's a long story and I'm not going to bore you with all the details, but I have a son, a human son."  
  
"That's not possible!"  
  
"So everyone kept telling me at the time. But it's true, I have a son and I had to give him up." Angel paused, struggling for control. "It was the only way I could save him. The contract with Wolfram and Hart gave him an entirely new identity. No, more than that, a new life -with a new family. He has no memories of who he really is – who he was."  
  
"When did this happen? How?"  
  
"Darla happened."  
  
"Darla? Yeah, right!" snorted Spike.  
  
"Look, I told you it's a long story. I'll tell you over a drink." Angel went to one of his cupboards and pulled out a whiskey bottle and two glasses. He held the bottle up towards Spike. "Powers?"  
  
Spike raised an eyebrow. "The wages of sin, mate. Pour away."  
  
----------  
  
The bottle was half-empty and the light was totally gone from the sky. Angel and Spike sat side by side, their glasses freshly replenished. Wesley had abandoned his attempts at getting Spike to his office to brief him on the demon. After his third phone call, he'd decided that if the two vampires were able to spend hours in one another's company, talking without attempting to kill one another, it was probably worth the wait.  
  
"So, how come we never got to hear about any of this over in Sunnydale?" asked Spike. "Didn't you think Buffy had a right to know? Or were you worried how she might take the news?"  
  
"It was a difficult time. What with trying to save the world from Jasmine and the Beast, things were complicated." Angel studied the contents of his glass. Why did Spike always do this, bring everything back to his relationship with Buffy?  
  
"They always are. Doesn't explain why you didn't tell her."  
  
"Jesus, Spike. – One-track-mind. Pour my heart out to you and all you can think about is . . ."  
  
"Had plenty of opportunity before the snatch happened. So why didn't you?"  
  
_The same old Spike, taking any opportunity to bring everything back to his own obsession._ "Just let it go will you?"  
  
Spike had no intention of dropping the topic. He was on his feet, pacing, angrily round the room. "What? You afraid she'd stop loving you? Afraid she'd hate you when you told her you had the one thing you can never give her?"  
  
Angel's glass shattered in his hand. "You don't understand," he growled.  
  
Spike came to a halt in front of Angel and glared down at him. "Oh, I think I do Angel. You wanted to keep them both. You wanted to go on playing happy families here in L.A., knowing that the love of your life was fighting the good fight in Sunnydale, still loving you."  
  
Angel slumped back in his seat, the urge to fight draining out of his fingers with the remaining shards of glass.  
  
"Perhaps you're right. Who knows? What's done is done. Too late now to undo it. Anyway, there's no point in telling her now is there? He's not mine any more." Angel looked up at Spike. "Neither of them are mine any more."  
  
_Neither of them!_ Spike's anger evaporated. He sat down and turned Angel's story over in his mind. "Still don't get it," he said after a few moments of reflection. "Why'd you do it? Why sell yourself to Wolfram and Hart?"  
  
"Have you ever loved anybody so much that you'd do anything to give them a chance at living a normal life?" Angel glanced at Spike and understood his glum, silent response immediately. "I love my son above everything else, Spike. Darla told me he was the only good thing we ever did together. And she was right."  
  
Spike was quiet for a second or two, thinking of Buffy. For once his quippy-muse deserted him. It took a moment for him to recognise the emotion he felt, unaccustomed as he was to feeling it, but it was pity; pity for Angel. Now Spike knew the reason for the earlier breakdown. So where did he fit in any plan Angel had to save his son again? And what about the others? "But this mind-wipe thing," he said, voicing his concern. "It'll turn out badly. These things always do. Means justifying the end? It's a slippery slope."  
  
"I know. I can handle it." Angel raised his head and looked Spike straight in the eyes. "They must never know."  
  
Spike nodded, reluctantly. He'd heard that before, a lifetime ago, and remembered how it had ended.  
  
"Are you going to help me?"  
  
Spike didn't need to consider his reply for long. Angel might deserve all the resentment he'd thrown at him for turning him into a monster, but he didn't deserve punishment for turning his son into the twisted boy he'd become in Holtz's hands. "I'll help, Angel. But only 'cos it's you who's doing the asking this time." Spike's expression brightened, " When do I get my own office?"  
  
----------  
  
The feeble rays of a winter sun were filtering their way through the blinds. Spike had left long ago to find Wesley. Angel pressed the pause button and stopped the video at the place where he'd always stopped it before Wesley's accident with the remote, on Connor's smiling face. Angel had previously felt only joy, tempered by a sense of loss at that smile, knowing his son was safely in the bosom of a normal family. Connor, in his graduation robes, had just delivered the Valedictorian speech on the platform at Eagle Rock High. He had spoken of a scholarship that would help fund his studies to further his ambition to work for the Court of Appeal in The Hague, championing the cause of Human Rights. Angel didn't know if he deserved the feeling of pride that welled up inside when he listened to his son, but for the time being he took comfort in the knowledge that Connor was safe; he'd accepted a place at Cornell.  
  
_So why do I feel so uneasy about these killings at USC?_ Angel turned to his computer and searched for the updated information. He scanned the list of victims' names. Connor's wasn't among them. 


	3. Relative Values

Chapter 3. Relative Values

* * *

  
  
Wesley was impressed. Angel had done what he'd failed to do. He'd got Spike to agree to work with them at Wolfram and Hart. _Perhaps it was the offer of an office that did it_, thought Wesley. He'd probably never know. Close as he was to Angel, he wasn't 'blood family' like Spike.  
  
"You call this an office?" Spike's voice dripped with sarcasm as he looked around the room with disdain. "It's smaller than the broom cupboard Xander let me bunk in."  
  
The office was certainly not of the same palatial proportions of Angel's but only Spike would refer to it as a broom cupboard.  
  
"Let me show you the facilities," said Wesley. "Angel asked me to make a few suggestions to help a fellow Englishman feel at home."  
  
_Home_, thought Spike wistfully. _Haven't felt at home since . . . No, don't go there. Buffy's basement is a big hole in the ground, along with the rest of Sunnyhell._  
  
Wesley led the way over to an alcove set to the right-hand side of a large window. He opened the first of a series of matching cupboards faced in maple. "Here we have a supplies cabinet."  
  
Spike was surprised by the contents. This was no office supplies' cabinet; it was a fully stocked refrigerator. There were cans of beer and a bottle of milk, packets of ready-cooked meals and, neatly stacked on the bottom shelves cartons containing what looked like fresh blood. Spike picked one up and held it to the light. "This come with a use-by stamp?"  
  
Wesley reached out and turned the carton around so that Spike could read the reverse side.  
  
"Hmmm. 'T's good for another day. How often is this re-stocked?"  
  
"Daily, I think, and the same for the milk. But not the other contents. Apparently you're to be rationed on that. Imported beer isn't cheap."  
  
Spike picked out one of the cans from inside the fridge door. "What the . . . ? Wes! How could you let them do this to the Cream of Manchester? Boddingtons dies at this temperature."  
  
"I did leave instructions that it was to be stored in another cupboard," said Wesley frowning. "Americans just don't seem to appreciate the subtle flavours of English beer."  
  
"No they bloody don't," agreed Spike. "Though I quite like a cold Guinness on a hot day."  
  
"That doesn't count," said Wesley sharply. "It's Irish."  
  
Spike closed the fridge and began opening other doors at random. The first concealed a microwave oven.  
  
"For heating the blood," Wesley explained unnecessarily.  
  
"Or spicy buffalo-wings," added Spike, grinning. From what he'd just spotted in the refrigerator, someone knew his food preferences very well.  
  
Another door dropped down from just below the height of Spike's head to form a small tabletop. Wesley reached into the cupboard and slid out an automatic tea-maker. In the recesses at the back of the cupboard, Spike could see various packets, labelled 'Ceylon', 'Darjeeling', 'Earl Grey', 'Lapsang Souchong'.  
  
Wesley coughed nervously. "Um, - I don't know what your preferences are as regards tea, but I asked for a selection, just to get you started." He rummaged in the fruit bowl on the counter-top. "Though I can't see any lemons; I distinctly asked for lemons . . . "  
  
Spike chuckled, "Appreciate the thought. Not much of a tea drinker these days." Spike wondered where all this was leading. Wesley was trying too hard.  
  
"Yes, well . . . perhaps we should move over to the main work area."  
  
The room was divided neatly into two distinct areas. The half in which they stood was furnished with two over-stuffed leather sofas, facing one another across a low, light-oak coffee table.  
  
_Could settle in here permanently, _mused Spike_. Sofas look comfy. Three-seater looks as if it converts to a bed._ Spike wondered who had chosen the furnishings and the colour scheme of dark, slate-grey carpet and midnight-blue blinds. _Someone with taste._  
  
Wesley crossed the room to the side opposite the seating, where the desk stood. Spike followed, but stopped as he stepped into the light that was streaming through the large picture window.  
  
"Over here is your Control Centre. Everything can be activated from your office chair. Why don't you try it out and see what's been provided?" Wesley turned to see why Spike didn't respond and was fascinated by the sight of vampire standing close to the window, basking in the sunlight.  
  
"Never tire of this," beamed Spike. "'S almost as good as the Gem of Amarra, 'cept you can't carry it with you. Wonder if they could treat clothes with whatever is on the glass? D' you think Fred would have a go at trying something like that?"  
  
"I hardly consider that a responsible use of her departmental budget." Wesley was quick to censure any ideas Spike might be entertaining to find an excuse to get closer to Fred.  
  
"Calm down, Watcher Boy. Don't get your knickers in a twist. I was only teasing." Spike stepped back from the window into the shadows. "Just like the whole not bursting into flames when I step into sunlight that's all."  
  
Wesley allowed himself to relax. He was having a difficult time getting to know Spike, but it would be worth the effort. He was determined to fathom the puzzle of the two vampires with souls in relation to the Shanshu prophecy. Spike had just saved the world, and a phrase, he couldn't remember its origins nor why it kept recurring, was haunting Wesley;_ Angel's son must save the world._  
  
He marvelled, not for the first time, at just how different the two vampires were. Where Angel shunned the safe sunlight offered by the windows, here was Spike basking in the pleasure of testing his 'wonder if I'll freckle' theory. Where Angel's concerns drove him inward into solitary meditation, Spike's sent him outward seeking company of some sort. Spike was all about action, and as changeable as the English weather; Angel was all about control. Wesley wondered how Angel hoped to control Spike by limiting his activities to those an office had to offer.  
  
"There's a computer here, with Internet access, Broadband of course, and . . ."  
  
"Broadband?" interrupted Spike, swivelling the chair and testing its tilt action at the same time.  
  
Wesley smiled. Angel really hadn't a hope of getting Spike to stay at a desk for long. "It means the Internet is always on. Now this control button here," Wesley caught the armrest as it swung towards him, "is for the television." This was far more suitable for Spike. A cupboard door on the wall facing the desk slid open to reveal a large flat screen. "And this is the D.V.D. player." The screen leapt into action, a menu appearing on a blue background. "If you want to listen to some music as you work," Wesley couldn't begin to imagine what sort of work Spike might be given; "there's always the sound system." The D.V.D. menu was replaced by a long list of albums.  
  
"Are all these mine?" Spike squeaked, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. "Where'd you find 'em? Some of these are virtually impossible to get." He began skimming down the list. " Sex Pistols' 'Anarchy in the UK', the live album, 'Never Mind the Bollocks'. Look, there's even some Black Flag, and Dead Kennedys!" Spike was practically bouncing with joy.  
  
_It's like watching a child opening his Christmas presents,_ thought Wesley. When had he last seen Angel show that much enthusiasm for anything? Come to think of it, when had he ever seen Angel show that much enthusiasm? "They were all recommended by Harmony. She seems to know your tastes in music very well."  
  
"Yeah, well, we had a thing going a few years' back and she moved in with me. Didn't end well. She set fire to most of my stuff at one point. Only left me the rubbish I didn't give a damn about."  
  
Spike hurtled down the list of albums, changing menus with such speed that Wesley began to revise his earlier notion that Spike was 'digitally challenged'. "The Ramones, you got me the Ramones' 'Pleasant Dreams'!"  
  
Wesley covered his ears and winced as the speakers roared into life.  
  
#She's a sensation. She's a sensation.  
She looks so sweet. She's a sensation.  
She's a sensation.  
Good enough to eat.#  
  
Spike silenced the music with a flick of his thumb, his face adopting a serious expression, the grin replaced by a slight pursing of the lips and a wistful look in his eyes. "Indulged in a little too much of that . . . giving in to sensations. Led to doing some things I regret, some bad calls." Spike rolled his neck and pulled himself together with a slight smile. "Had a good ol' chinwag with Harm the other day. Felt I owed her an apology or an explanation at least. Needed to set the record straight."  
  
----------  
  
Having no office to crash in was beginning to get on Spike's wick; he'd taken to hanging about in the reception area. On that particular evening he'd perched himself on the edge of Harmony's desk as she was packing up to leave, taking care to avoid the ever-growing collection of unicorns.  
  
"Person could have a nasty accident on these," he grumbled, picking up one of the larger statuettes and running his finger along the twisted horn that ended in a particularly sharp point.  
  
"Only if they were doing something a certain other person had told him he couldn't take for granted any more," replied Harmony, closing the desk drawer and switching off her work light.  
  
Spike had the good grace to look embarrassed, just for an instant. He replaced the unicorn carefully with its deskmates.  
  
"Anyway," Harmony continued, "you look a mess. A certain person wouldn't want to - even if they wanted to."  
  
Spike finished arranging the unicorns; he'd lined them all up with their horns pointing towards Harmony. "That the best you can do?" asked Spike tilting his head slightly. "If you want to get rid of me, just say so. – Anyway, whad'ya mean, mess? Clean togs, fresh on today."  
  
"Have you looked at yourself recently? Your roots are showing."  
  
"Well, as it happens, not recently, no." Spike rolled his eyes. "Vampire - Reflection. You should know."  
  
"You are so stuck in the Dim Ages, Spike. Camcorder."  
  
"Come again?"  
  
"Camcorder. Look."  
  
Harmony swivelled her monitor towards him, revealing her own image. Spike swung himself off the desk and over to her side, pulling the screen back to its original position. For a moment, he was speechless, amazed by what he saw.  
  
"Bloody Nora. Look as if I haven't eaten in years." He tilted the monitor and turned his head for a better view of his profile.  
  
"That's not what I mean. Your roots need doing. "Harmony gestured at his hands. "And your nails. Jeez' Spike, if that's what having a soul does for you, I'm glad I haven't got one." She switched off her computer. "C'mon," she said, dragging him away from the desk.  
  
"Where are we goin'?"  
  
"Back to my place! You need a lot of work doing on you."  
  
"Don't think that's such a good idea, pet. Remember where you doing the hair and nails used to lead."  
  
"Eeeew Spike!" Harmony slapped his arm. "So not going there again. No – strictly a girlie night. – C'mon. It'll be fun," she wheedled.  
  
"Hey! - Watch who you're calling 'girlie!"  
  
Spike chuckled quietly to himself as he allowed her to pull him towards the exit. _Dim Ages!_

----------  
  
Spike closed his eyes, took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was to come.  
  
"What are you waiting for?" Harmony asked him. "You don't need an invite."  
  
Spike let out his breath, opened his eyes and stepped into the overly pink apartment. He shuddered. Iit was very much as he'd known it would be. The walls were painted pale rose, the furniture was 'early girlie', with frills, throws, quilts, and lots of stuffed animals, mostly unicorns.  
  
Harmony pulled him into the small kitchen area. "Come on, you big baby."  
  
"I'm coming, luv," he said as he looked around.  
  
"You're not going to change your mind about this, are you? Your roots are horrible. What have you been thinking? 'Soul now, so I don't have to look hot'?" she chastised him.  
  
"Can't do it all pet. Looking good, being a champion, and fighting the good fight. Fella's got his limits! Been through a bit lately, that's all." Spike removed his duster and draped it across the back of one of the kitchen chairs beside the table in the middle of the room.  
  
"Still, that doesn't mean that you can't look good. What happened to the Blondie Bear that I came to love?" Harmony pushed him down into a country style chair beside the sink.  
  
"No time for those things. I have to..."  
  
"Eeeww! Spike everyone has time for personal hygiene and grooming." Harmony started to take the items out of the bag of supplies they'd picked up on the way to her apartment; one bottle of Ultimate Blonde, pack of smokes, and a small stuffed unicorn. "Oh, Spike, it's wonderful!" she screeched as she hugged it. Then she kissed him on the cheek.  
  
Spike recoiled. Maybe nicking the unicorn had been a bad idea. He'd decided to go along with Harmony's plan on the spur of the moment. He saw it as a way of saying sorry for jumping her the moment he'd become corporeal. All his senses had come rushing back; taste, touch, smell. And his blood had rushed to the place it always did when he caught the scent of an attractive female, particularly one he'd known so well. Just because it was an instinctive reaction, didn't make it right though. And now Harmony's kiss had roused the instinct once again.  
  
"You like it?" he asked, covering his confusion and a growing hardness in his pants with a copy of 'Self' he'd picked off the worktop beside him.  
  
"Of course I do, " replied Harmony as she wrapped a towel around his shoulders.  
  
"Good." Spike looked away from her. Going along with this makeover was definitely not one of his better ideas.  
  
Harmony smiled as she squeezed the unicorn excitedly. "Oh my god, this is going to be so much fun!" She put the unicorn on the table, pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and started mixing the hair colorant. She looked down at Spike who sat uncomfortably in his chair, looking glum. "It's your fault you know. I couldn't live up to your standards," she said seriously.  
  
Spike was puzzled by her sudden change of mood. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Coming to LA was the best thing I ever did. I couldn't be Buffy for you and I wasn't your Godzilla. I just don't have it in me to be all Grrrr." She took two towels from the drying rack and placed them on Spike's lap. "Why the unicorn?" she asked, changing the subject.  
.  
Spike ignored the insult to Drusilla. "Thought if you were going to clutter your desk, you might as well have something I couldn't some to any harm on," he lied.  
  
"Harm on?" Harmony gave him a blank look. "Oh Harm – on. Joke, right?" She giggled nervously. "I get it. And you said I never understood your jokes."  
  
Spike raised his eyes to the ceiling. He'd forgotten just how irritating Harmony could be without really trying.  
  
Harmony pushed his head down over the sink and doused it with water. She towelled it swiftly, parted his hair and started to apply the colour. "Harm on," she giggled. "That's really very funny. It's one of those what d'you call thems - punks - you were always good at punks."  
  
"Punks?" _Oh balls, it's not worth the effort, just let it go._ "That's right, Harm." Spike couldn't think of a way of bringing the conversation round to the second reason that he'd decided to come to Harmony's apartment. He settled for plunging straight in; Harmony never was one for subtlety.  
  
"Harm, you don't drink human blood anymore. Why?"  
  
"Oh, that's easy. It upsets me. At first, I thought it was way cool, but after I ate a little old lady onetime, she gave me heartburn, and I couldn't drink human blood anymore after that." Harmony gave the colorant bottle another shake. "I never liked all that stalking my prey," she continued. "Hunting is so hard. I found a nice butcher shop that caters for vampires and I got the recipe for pig's blood and otter that is out this world. I could write it out for you if you like. Or, better still, we could have a cook-in one night. That would be . . . "  
  
"Harm, you don't have a soul," Spike said, interrupting her and reaching for the towel she was handing out to him to wipe his face.  
  
"Soul, why do you need one of those? I can see what you and Angel are going through, why I would want that? I have a good life, or un-life. I work; I have friends – well colleagues anyway. I can't go out in the daylight, but hey other people have disabilities and they work around them." She shrugged her shoulders and emptied the remainder of the bottle onto Spike's head.  
  
"Bloody hell woman! I forgot how much this stuff stings," he cried.  
  
"Don't be such a big cry baby. You weren't a wuss when you didn't have a soul."  
  
"I am not a wuss!"  
  
"Are too."  
  
"Not."  
  
"Too." Harmony removed the plastic gloves and washed her hands.  
  
Spike sat up and swung himself around to face her. "Enough, Harm." he said gently, handing her the remaining dry towel from the top of the magazine on his lap.  
  
Harmony opened her mouth to reply, gazed at him for a moment, and closed it again. She dried her hands, left the kitchen and returned holding a large see-through case containing her large collection of nail polish. She busied herself sorting through looking for the right colour. " Passion black. No that's not right. Ah, Midnight Black." She reached out, grasped Spike's hands and peered at his nails. "Nothing there to file. You've bitten them right down; you never used to do that." She went back picking out nail polish bottles and was happy to find the one she really wanted. "Vampire Black. Perfect."  
  
"Not black, Pet."  
  
Harmony pouted and resumed her search. She played with some bottles of nail polish for a while and took out some cotton balls. "I don't know why you and Angel make such a big deal about having a soul anyway. Seems to me, it's more trouble than it's worth."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Look at you two; so serious and bent on becoming something you're not. Why can't you just be happy with who you are?" She applied some cleansing lotion to his nails and began working on the cuticles.  
  
"I _am_ happy with what I am," Spike insisted.  
  
"Yeah? Then why'd you go and get a soul? For Buffy? 'Cos she treated you so well didn't she? With her 'Vampires are evil and I'm Miss Goody Two-Shoes. Well, she can stake herself."  
  
"What's that suppose to mean?" Spike was having difficulty keeping up with Harmony's line of reasoning. _Nothing new there._ How had they got from his soul to Harmony's jealousy of Buffy?  
  
"Last time I saw you in Sunnydale, you wanted to kill her; then you went and got a soul for her and look where that got you. Nowhere! You're all broody and no fun."  
  
"Take that back! I'm fun!"  
  
Harmony picked up the magazine that had fallen from Spike's lap onto the floor. "Did you know that that having a good laugh can reduce stress, alleviate allergy symptoms and improve immunity?" she asked, flicking through the pages and holding the magazine up at one headed 'Did you know?'  
  
"Harm. We can't catch viruses - not too sure about allergies . . . "  
  
"Or that having a manicure is part of a ten step plan to boosting your self-esteem?" She shook the bottle of Vampire Black, took his hand into hers and started to paint his nails. "When was the last time you painted your nails?"  
  
"Harm! - Hey, I told you, no black. Use the clear stuff."  
  
Harmony ignored him and continued painting. "I'm doing all the right things; healthy diet, plenty of sleep, sunscreen every day to protect my skin from damage; everything on Bobbi's Beauty Commandments' list. So why don't I feel any better about myself?"  
  
"Could be the sun screen," muttered Spike. He couldn't cope with Harmony's butterfly mind and his irritation had notched up a level. With his free hand he reached for a pack of smokes, took one out, put it up to his lip, and lit it.  
  
"You need to cut back on those!"  
  
"I thought you were going to start?"  
  
"That's when I wanted to be evil, silly. Smoking is bad for you."  
  
"Harmony, we're vampires. We do_ not_ get sick!"  
  
"It's disgusting. It gets into everything."  
  
Spike gave up. _It really isn't worth the effort, mate._ "Fine!" He stubbed the cigarette out in the sink.  
  
"You'll cut back then?"  
  
He gave her a non-committal shrug.  
  
"Fine," she said. She looked at the clock. "You still have ten minutes."  
  
"Great, it hurts like hell," he grumbled.  
  
"I still don't know why you want a soul. You don't need it."  
  
"Harm!" he growled threateningly.  
  
"Blondie Bear," she replied, smiling sweetly at him from under her lashes.  
  
"Don't call me that!"  
  
"Fine. I won't - Spikeypooh"  
  
Spike groaned.  
  
----------  
  
"What I can't get over," said Spike, as Wesley handed him a mug of freshly-heated blood from the microwave, "Is how easy she seems to find it all. How come she doesn't go on the rampage and bite people any more?"  
  
"She does seem to have adjusted to her new diet remarkably well," agreed Wesley, "although Angel's zero-tolerance policy could have something to do with it."  
  
"Could be. Mind you, she never was much good at the evil bit; too scatty to stay focused. Makes the whole working for the good guys without a soul all the more . . . what's the word?"  
  
"Inconceivable?" Wesley checked the teapot, gave the leaves a final stir and poured himself a cup.  
  
"Well, was gonna go with 'impossible' but one 'i word' is as good as another."  
  
"It wasn't impossible in your case, from what I've heard," observed Wesley, taking a milk bottle from the fridge and checking it for freshness before adding a drop to his tea.  
  
"Come again? – I have a soul. How can you forget, what with all the problems two vamps with souls seem to be causing?"  
  
"I don't mean now. I mean before the soul. I've heard all about the things, good things, you did back then."  
  
"Who? . . . "  
  
"Giles. You didn't think that Andrew could keep news as big as your resurrection from Giles did you?" Seeing Spike's sudden fearful look, Wesley went on hurriedly, "Oh, don't worry. No one else has been told. Giles felt it was his duty to speak only to me. He told me some things I wouldn't have thought possible."  
  
"Did he also tell you the reason I went to the ends of the earth to fight for my soul?"  
  
"Not in detail." Wesley knew he had to tread carefully from now on. He'd hoped to get Spike to open up to him about the soul but never dreamed that an opportunity would present itself so early. He waited; Spike appeared lost in thought and Wesley feared that he'd trespassed too far. He took a sip from his cup and waited.  
  
Spike finally shook himself out of his reverie. He swallowed a mouthful of blood. "The chip was what stopped me hurting humans. When it stopped working on Buffy, it led to . . . "Spike stopped again.  
  
"Your having to reassess your true nature?" Wesley ventured.  
  
"Something like that. – Anyway, got the soul for Buffy. The demon - the one I went to see - he told me she'd castrated me, that I was no longer the powerful dark warrior I once was. "  
  
"Was he right?"  
  
"Half right. - Was still a warrior. Didn't want to be on the dark side anymore. Wanted to be what she deserved."  
  
"Quad erat demonstrandum," concluded Wesley.  
  
"How d'you reckon that?"  
  
"You renounced evil even before you'd earned your soul. That wasn't a decision that the chip helped you make."  
  
"It was for Buffy, not for me."  
  
"And at the Hellmouth? Was that just for Buffy?"  
  
"Perhaps. Mostly. _No_. Not just for Buffy. I could feel my soul, really feel it. And when Buffy took my hand in hers, . . . I felt hers too." Spike struggled to find the words to express what he'd felt. "I needed to do it, for me. I just, - I had to stay and finish it."  
  
"Finish it as her Champion?" Wesley knew he was pushing him hard but Spike had opened up in a way Angel never would, so he risked another step. "As the one who saved the world?"  
  
"No. Not that. Never thought of myself as a Champion, not until the night Buffy handed me the amulet. "  
  
"The amulet had to be worn by someone with a soul but stronger than a human. Did it ever occur to you that this was the reason you got your soul back?"  
  
"C'mon Percy. When did I have time to think about any of that? When I was loony tunes in the school basement? Or when I was being tortured by The First Evil? Anyway, told you, I don't go in much for thinking. Leave that to the Mighty Broody One."  
  
Wesley doubted that Spike was even close to telling the truth as far as thinking was concerned. He might not be in the same league as Angel, but there was directness in his speech that came from some introspection.  
  
"Well then, I'll bring it back to the question of Harmony. It appears that she is able to function perfectly adequately without a soul. You could probably do likewise. Your soul may no longer be required. If, as you claim, you sought it for Buffy, it may have already served its purpose; that of providing her with her Champion who would close the Hellmouth forever."  
  
"And if I don't need it for her anymore, were I to lose it," Spike suddenly stepped threateningly close to Wesley, "that would leave the way clear for your boy to claim the Shanshu."  
  
_I knew his intelligence shouldn't be underestimated,_ thought Wesley holding his ground. "That's not what I was getting at," he said firmly. "But you do have a point." He paused and returned Spike's gaze, noticing his blue eyes flecking orange then yellow around the iris, but refusing to back down.  
  
_Watcher's got balls,_ thought Spike. Got to admire that.  
  
"Look at it this way," said Wesley. "You won your soul for Buffy. It served its purpose and gave you the chance to redefine who you are. You died; and yet here you are, back again, in L.A. Why? Why are you here? Perhaps it's not to replace Angel, – Please don't interrupt,"  
  
Spike grumbled, a low growl escaping his lips, his eyes yellowing further.  
  
"Not to replace Angel, but to help him by offering your soul..."  
  
" . . . as the honour price," finished Spike.  
  
"You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?" Wesley was amused to find himself mildly irritated. Why had Spike allowed him to lead him down this line of thought when he'd obviously reached this conclusion before? _Testing my motives. Not as dim as he would have us believe._  
  
"Some," admitted Spike.  
  
"I suspected as much. You're a terrible liar."  
  
"I need a smoke," said Spike abruptly, relaxing his features and walking over to the desk.  
  
Wesley let out the breath he'd been unaware he'd been holding. "It's your office," he reminded him.  
  
"Why, so it is. Right. Get out then. Leave a bloke to listen to some music and have a fag in peace will you. It's not every day he gets to hear he might be the Chosen One. Being Angel's progeny might come at too high a price, though. Haven't decided yet."  
  
_Angel's progeny!_ Lilah's words again. As he stepped into the corridor and closed the door to Spike's office behind him, Wesley had another flash of memory. _Angel's son must save the world._ Where had that come from? Spike had saved the world. But Spike wasn't Angel's son; technically, Angel was only Spike's grandsire. _Angel's son - a baby. _Wesley closed his eyes against the darkness that threatened to swallow him and put a steadying hand on the door behind him. As he made his way slowly towards his own office, his thoughts took him back to Lilah, blood, and the ocean.  
  
----------  
  
Spike stubbed out his cigarette in the marble ashtray on the coffee table, drained his beer glass and leaned back against the arm of the leather sofa. _Perhaps your purpose is not to replace Angel as the one who Shanshus, but to help him._ Spike mulled the words over. They were remarkably close to something Giles had once said. What was it? Something about having a higher purpose. He couldn't remember; Giles was a lifetime away, and, whatever Wesley might believe, Spike was not the same vampire he'd been back then.  
  
Did Wesley have a point? Spike was the offspring to whom the contract referred as far as he was concerned; he couldn't possibly remember that Angel had a son. Spike didn't like what he was now considering. Was it even remotely likely that he might have been brought back to help Angel, not by dying, but by giving up his soul?  
  
"Bollocks to that!" he exclaimed, swirling the fine lacing of beer round his empty glass. His head was aching. All this metaphysical musing was giving him a headache not unlike the dull after-effects of a warning from the now defunct chip. "Was hard enough getting the bloody thing in the first place. Got it for Buffy; not giving it up for Angel." Spike leapt to his feet and strode over to the refrigerator for another beer. "Promised to help him but don't owe the Bugger that much. What's he ever done for me? Nothing! 'cept make me miserable." He pulled out a can and kicked the door shut with his heel. "Made it clear, right from day one, he didn't consider me a fit member of his family; barley tolerated me; used me that's what he did; used me to keep Dru amused when he was too busy to bother with her." Spike ripped off the ring-pull from the top of the can. The contents spilled out in a fountain of foam, covering his boots with a coating of froth. The sight fuelled his rising anger. "Made sure she only ever wanted me when he wasn't available. Took everything I ever loved, Dru, . . ."  
  
Spike stopped and took a swig from the can, stopping the remainder of the spume of beer and his own vitriolic outburst. This wasn't Angel he was recollecting. It was Angelus. Typical of the Ponce to have two completely separate personalities. Not a lot I can pin on Angel, unless bad hair decisions count. Spike considered this as he watched the final droplets of beer dripping off his hand and down onto boots, then shook his head and grimaced. _Probably not, he decided._  
  
He had to get out for a while and do something. Inactivity was playing havoc with his sense of well being. Not that he'd felt very well since he'd come back but who'd cared? Perhaps Fred, fleetingly, when he was helpless and harmless and a not-quite-a-ghost. Now he was able to look after himself and get into trouble, Fred had cooled off with the sympathy. Angel had probably got to her; told her how unreliable he was. Well, he'd show them all just how responsible he could be if he chose. He'd go and speak to Gunn; he had a special project for him, so he said; something about a student who needed an eye kept on him while he settled in on the Wolfram and Hart scholarship at USC. Gunn had come up with the idea to keep Spike out of mischief, he was sure of it. What could he do that would keep him out of trouble? They could go to a match; the kid had an Irish sounding name so it was possible he liked footie. What was his name? Spike searched his memory.  
  
_Connor. That's it!_


	4. It's in the Genes

Chapter 4 – It's in the genes.

* * *

  
  
The young man standing beside Gunn didn't look that special; small, slightly–built; hair, mid-length, flopping into dark eyes; USC sweatshirt worn over black jeans. _Just a normal looking boy_. Spike mentally breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
_Not a book worm then. _He'd worried that he might have made a mistake in getting tickets for a college football game. _Hope he knows the game. I won't have a bull's clue what's going on. Don't fancy being bored witless for hours. _He tried reassuring himself, "Could be fun. At least it'll get me out of here for a while."  
  
He crossed the reception area and made his way to Harmony's desk. He'd left his duster in his office. He didn't want to scare the boy. Gunn had told him to make sure that Connor was kept clear of any obvious demon types. As far as Connor was concerned, Wolfram and Hart was a reputable law firm funding his studies as part of their benefactor scheme. Lorne was strictly off limits, as were all the demon bars and shady parts of the city. Spike had replaced his usual attire with a simple, dark blue button-down shirt worn over black pants. He didn't intend to give Angel any ammunition to further the assertion that he still wasn't entirely trustworthy. He'd even polished his boots. As he neared the reception desk, he heard Gunn say,  
  
"To conclude, Ms Kendall has outlined your living arrangements and explained that we've organised for someone to show you the sights. We're just waiting for him to . . ." Gunn spotted Spike and managed to keep the surprise at his appearance out of his voice, "Ah, here he comes now".  
  
The boy turned away from Gunn and extended a hand to Spike.  
  
"Nice to meet you Mr Sanguinaire."  
  
Gunn raised his eyebrows and silently mouthed,  
  
"_Mr Sanguinaire_?"  
  
Ignoring him, Spike smiled at Connor. "Call me William." _See. Angel wants respectable. I can do respectable. Just two rungs down from Her Majesty, William is. Can't get much more respectable than that. _Spike grasped Connor's hand and resisted the urge to drop it immediately as his fingers tingled on contact. _Shit! What the? One of those joke shock things?_ He gripped Connor's hand more firmly but felt nothing, other than flesh against his palm. There was nothing there except an equally firm responding pressure.  
  
"You a football fan?" Spike continued aloud. "I got tickets to the college game tonight."  
  
"More a soccer fan," answered Connor. "My Dad's a big USC supporter though. I'd like the chance to cheer his team on for him. I guess it's _my_ team too now."  
  
_A soccer fan. Bonus! _Spike had already dismissed the sensation of a spark of connection in the handshake, surprised afresh by an unaccustomed feeling of pleasurable anticipation. The thought of spending the evening in the company of someone who had nothing to do with what was going on at Wolfram and Hart, or the more than usually strained relations between himself and Angel, was beginning to look more and more attractive. Even if it was to be '_mischief-free'.  
_  
"Right. Car's outside. Let's be off. Don't wait up, Gunn. I'll make sure Connor's safely tucked up in his dorm before I come home." Spike turned to Connor, gestured towards the exit, and asked, "So, Connor, who's your soccer team?"  
  
"Manchester United."  
  
Spike felt a warm, almost brotherly affection flood through his veins.  
  
"Call me Will," he smiled. "All my friends do." He held the door open for Connor. "Or they would do if I had any," he added, so quietly that no one heard him. 

----------

Spike was still mourning his beloved Desoto, lost to him when Buffy and the Scoobies took a road trip to escape Glory and her minions.  
  
_Pity that. Should have gone with the instinct and just nicked the Porsche. Not that it I'd still have it. It's gone to the big scrap heap in the sky, along with everything else in Sunnydale. Still, this jallopy comes with all mod cons. Shouldn't complain._  
  
He eased the Viper into the early evening traffic, resisting the urge to put his foot down, to give in to the need to overcome his restlessness by indulging in some fast, adrenaline-pumping lane-cutting. He flicked his eyes over to Connor. The boy was almost as tense as he was. He sat, with poker-straight back, focusing on the road ahead, chewing his lip. Spike could feel his apprehension, could see it in the way his hands gripped his seatbelt, could smell it in the scent of his sweat.  
  
"So, college boy, who'd you have to kill to get the scholarship?"  
  
Connor flinched. "Kill?" His eyes darted to Spike's face. "Oh. You're joking, right? This is that weird British humour Dad keeps quoting from those Monty Python videos he's so fond of?"  
  
"Joking? Well, right, yeah." Spike inwardly cursed himself. _Stupid prat. What d'you say that for?_  
  
"Didn't need to kill anyone. Didn't even have to apply for it. Was going to take a place at Cornell but my Principal called Dad and told him that Wolfram and Hart had a fully funded place here for me. I fulfilled the criteria, apparently."  
  
Connor fidgeted in his seat. He'd felt uneasy when he'd arrived at the offices earlier that day and discovered that no one was really interested in his college studies. He was even more uneasy now.  
  
"USC is Dad's old college."  
  
"Mmm? What?" Spike had been concentrating on negotiating an intersection and wasn't really listening.  
  
Connor stared at him. "You're not a lawyer are you?"  
  
The question took Spike by surprise. He hadn't prepared himself for this. Truth to tell, he hadn't really prepared for anything other than escaping the building for a while.  
  
"On secondment," he blurted. "Visiting Prof. from Magdalen Oxford." Spike plucked his old college from the depths of his memory. "Getting a taste of colonial culture."  
  
"Visiting professor? You're not old enough!" exclaimed Connor.  
  
"I'm older than I look," replied Spike, fumbling with the controls of the CD player. "A lot older," he added under his breath. "Got good skin. It runs in the family - on my mother's side. Let's have some music shall we?"  
  
The CD player began playing, picking up the track at the point it had reached when he'd last used the car.  
  
# I did it m - y- y w –a –a –a –y! #  
  
"You _are_ old!"  
  
Spike hastily silenced the player. "'S not mine," he spluttered. "Last bloke that used the car. Probably the Boss, now _he's_ really old, positively ancient in fact. Old enough to be my grandfather." Spike tried a change of topic. "Your parents. They live close by?"  
  
"Uh huh," replied Connor, staring out of the window. "One of the reasons I accepted the funding from Wolfram and Hart, to stay close to the folks."  
  
They were nearing the stadium on campus. Spike could see spectators milling around the entrance gates, their allegiance to their team providing a splash of colour in the deepening gloom of evening; the maroons and dark gold of the home team in clear contrast with the blues and gold of the visitors.  
  
"We could park here if you like. I don't mind the walk," said Connor.  
  
"Right you are. What do I need to take in with me?"  
  
"Just something warm to wear over your shirt. It'll really chill down now that the sun's set."  
  
"'S cold enough to freeze the balls off the proverbial brass monkey already," complained Spike as he reached for a coat from the rear seat. _Dark blue. Rival team's colours. _"Should be interesting," he chortled happily._  
  
_The stadium was alive with noise and movement and colour. The cheerleaders were going through their paces, working up the fans with their display of gymnastics-cum-dance-cum- _Downright provocative dress code,_ reflected Spike. "Beats the socks off anything the footie warm-up has to offer," he yelled to Connor. "I'd rather watch this than a marching band and some smelly ceremonial mascot called Billy or Nanny."  
  
Connor stared at him, puzzled.  
  
"Goat," Spike explained.  
  
Connor led the way to their seats, greeting friends as they moved down the steps and along their row. Spike felt a twinge of envy as he watched the boy mingling so obviously at ease with his peers. As they took their places, the public address system began the announcements, introducing the teams and their players. "Which is ours?" he asked, though he knew only too well which colours belonged to which team.  
  
"USC are in maroon and gold," Connor reminded him.  
  
"Is everyone here supporting USC?" Spike looked around. He was in the middle of a sea of maroon and gold; the aisle to his left denoting the no-man's land separating them from the blues and gold of the visiting supporters. "Fine. Then I'm gonna have to shout for the other side aren't I?" he grinned "Seein' as I'm wearing the colour. Who'd you say they were?"  
  
"Notre Dame. But I don't think that's such a good . . ."  
  
"Relax, kid. It'll be fine. Just adds to the evening's entertainment."  
  
Connor looked doubtful, but there was no time for further argument, as at that very moment, the referee signalled for play to begin. Spike realised he needn't have worried about being bored. The running commentary over the tannoy was describing the play as it happened.  
  
Spike could smell the adrenaline, hear the blood pumping through twenty-two bodies; their lungs heaving with exertion. "Who was it said that wars were won and lost on the playing fields of Eton?" he asked of no one in particular. "Whoever it was, knew what they were talking about." He felt the clash of bodies as the Notre Dame linebackers blocked USC's offensive line, while the quarterback made his first throw to the receiver. "That was bloody marvellous," he shouted, as five bodies hit the turf. "Is it allowed?"  
  
"It's called blocking. It's what the front line does," explained Connor.  
  
The commentator's voice rose with mounting excitement, "Second down and seven yards to go. Play action pass to Carter on the forty-two yard line. Touchdown!…"  
  
The Stadium erupted as the home team chalked up its first points.  
  
By the end of the first quarter, Spike was virtually hoarse, and in desperate need of a drink. "What can I get you?" he asked Connor as he made his way to the end of the row towards the man he'd spotted selling snacks from a tray.  
  
"Diet Coke is fine"  
  
"Anything to eat?"  
  
"No, just a Coke, thanks."  
  
The second quarter began before Spike had finished his beer. "Alcohol free," he'd assured Connor with a grimace. "Bloody awful stuff." He focussed his attention on the spectators. It was so different from the football stadiums of England. There were whole families here, kitted out in their team's colours, sitting chatting to one another, joking, drinking soft drinks, eating popcorn or hot dogs, occasionally arguing with a neighbour over a point of play. "Happy meals on legs," he murmered to himself. _Would've taken great pleasure partaking once-upon-a-time. _Spike bit deep into his second hot dog. "Why 's it called a hot dog?" he asked Connor. "It's neither hot, nor dog - I hope."  
  
Connor wasn't listening. He was on his feet, like many other USC supporters. "No way!" he shouted. "Where's the yellow flag? That was illegal contact! Did you see that Will?"  
  
"What?" Spike had been so engrossed in his own thoughts, that he'd stopped listening to the match commentary.  
  
"The quarterback was hit after he'd released the ball."  
  
"And _that's _not allowed, I'm thinking? Unlike blocking, which is." Spike turned his attention to the pitch once more. Play had come to a halt. Players were shoving each other around the field as the USC's quarterback slowly picked himself up off the ground, shaking his head. The referee was surrounded by a group of angry USC players yelling and gesticulating their discontent with his decision. Some of their team-mates went further; there was an eruption of violence, fists flailing, feet stamping on fallen victims felled by vicious blows raining down from numerous opponents.  
  
"I take it that's against the rules too?" Spike was impressed. The evening was turning out to be more fun that he could ever have anticipated. But there was one ingredient missing; audience participation. "Hey Ref. Are you blind? Where's your white stick?" he bellowed "  
  
Spike waited for the violence to spill over onto the terraces. He didn't wait long. Within seconds opposing supporters were arguing in those parts of the stadium where their seating was adjacent. Connor was already in full flight, exchanging insults across the aisle with a college boy sporting a blue and gold sweatshirt. Spike was wondering if he should intervene before things became physical when he detected the hot dog seller making his way rapidly up the steps, his tray discarded at the bottom of the flight, his attention fixed on Connor.  
  
As he drew level, the man grabbed Connor by the shoulders, swung him round and hit him, hard, in the face. Connor left the ground as the impact forced him backwards and into the row behind. Spike vaulted the seats and hauled Connor to his feet. Connor's nose was bleeding heavily and Spike had to fight the sudden urge to vamp out as he caught the familiar smell. He had no time to think; three more figures were converging on Connor, two from his left, one from his right. On regaining his feet, Connor adopted a defensive position, back-to-back with Spike. He blocked the blows from his assailants, executing a perfect snapkick that sent one head over heels, and flooring the other with an equally well-executed uppercut followed by a sidekick. Spike, meanwhile, had easily dispatched his two attackers, sending them hurtling to the bottom of the steps. Sensing an opportunity to retreat, he grabbed Connor by the hand and dragged him towards the exit. "We've gotta get out of here!" he yelled.  
  
Connor didn't waste time arguing. He didn't know what he'd done to provoke such a vicious attack; nothing like this had ever happened to him at a game before; but he knew, instinctively, that he didn't want to stay and find out. Together, he and Spike fled from the stadium and out into the parking lot. The car was some way off and Spike could hear the four whatever-they-were, not human anyway, gaining ground behind them. He looked around, searching for a means of escape. "And there it is!" he shouted to Connor as he raced across the street to the Harley Davidson parked alongside the stand selling pizza. "Come on!"  
  
Connor hesitated, just for an instant, then leapt on behind him. Spike opened up the throttle and roared away, leaving the sounds of the yells of the bike's outraged owner and the feet of their pursuers fading rapidly in the distance.  
  
Spike brought the bike to a halt outside the building Connor had indicated housed his dorm. "That got a bit out of hand, didn't it? Are all games like that? Or just college ones?"  
  
"You did pay for the hot dogs, didn't you?" responded Connor, ignoring his questions, "because the only explanation I can come up with is that you owed those guys money." Connor tried, unsuccessfully, to pass the incident off lightly.  
  
"Wasn't _me_ they were after." Spike didn't feel inclined to play along. "Looks like another attack on a Fresher."  
  
Connor laughed. "Good thing I pestered Dad for all those martial arts lessons then. They certainly paid off tonight. Didn't think I could hit that hard though. Never had to use the moves in anger before."  
  
"You handled yourself pretty well for a kid," conceded Spike, unwilling to reveal just how impressed he'd been with Connor's fighting skills. It wouldn't do to fill the boy's head with praise of that sort. "You gonna be OK?" he asked jerking his head towards the entrance door.  
  
"I'll be fine. Security's been really tight since the attack."  
  
"How's the nose?" asked Spike, grasping Connor's chin and turning his face to the porch light.  
  
"Feels fine," replied Connor touching it gingerly.  
  
"Looks fine," agreed Spike frowning. Save for some minor discoloration under one eye, there was no sign that the boy had just been in a savage fight._ Could have sworn it'd been broken, or at the very least badly bruised._  
  
"Always heal quickly. Got good genes," explained Connor as he opened the door. "Get them from my Dad." 


	5. Respecting the Ancestors

Chapter 5. Respecting the ancestors

* * *

  
Angel had found nothing in the Special Clients' File Lilah had mentioned in the video. Or, to be more accurate, he'd found no trace of _any _Special Clients' File. Harmony had assured him that if it were to be found, her friend, Bob from the Files and Records' Department would have discovered it. But, according to Eve, the special client _did_ exist and Spike had killed his son. Angel wondered why Lilah would deliberately mislead him about the file. There was nothing to be gained in doing that. So, if the file existed, what else was being kept from him? He felt his command of Wolfram and Hart slipping further away, together with his friends. He headed for Wesley's office, apprehension fuelling his feeling that things were spiralling out of control. _Was it only a couple of months ago we had that picnic? Feels like a lifetime. _  
  
Wesley looked up from the pile of papers he was rifling through on his desk when Angel entered the former Watcher's office. "What on earth did you say to Spike that made him change his mind about working with us?" Wesley asked. "I couldn't believe it at first, Spike, being helpful. But he gave me a very full account of his drunken night in that bar. Well as much as he could remember anyway. It appears that he consumed rather a lot. He was involved in a drinking contest with the demon before the argument began."  
  
"_Typical_. He never could resist a challenge." Angel stood gazing at the jumble on Wesley's desk looking glum. He'd been trying, unsuccessfully, to gather the information he'd asked the team to get for him. The thought that Spike might be the only one to have provided any didn't fill him with confidence.  
  
"Yes, well. He's given me enough to go on. I should be able to come up with something soon. But when I find out what sort of demon we're dealing with, I'm going to need more input to try to make sense of just what this honour price might involve."  
  
Wesley looked at Angel, sensing the disappointment he'd caused by the lack of anything specific to report. "I have, however, had more success with The Brehon Laws." He picked up a book that was balanced precariously on top of a lop-sided mountain of folders. "Ah – here it is," he brandished a single sheet of paper marking a page. "My initial searches proved somewhat inconclusive. They're written in the oldest dialect of the Irish language, Bairla-faina. Even those about to become Brehons at the time of their writing needed special instruction in it."  
  
Angel gave Wesley a blank stare and raised his eyebrows. He was in for one of those explanations that always left him more confused when they were over than he'd been before they'd begun; he just knew it.  
  
"There are Commentaries of course," continued Wesley.  
  
"Of course." _There always are._  
  
" . . . written by learned Brehons, hundreds of years later. Unfortunately, they are no clearer."  
  
_What a surprise_. Angel stared at the single sheet of paper in Wesley's hand. There wasn't much on it. _When did Wes abandon his pen for a printer?_ he wondered.  
  
"The translators are often quite at fault in their attempts to explain the texts. Their wording shows that they were fully conscious of the difficulty. The number of technical terms and phrases they use render the translations even more complex."  
  
Angel didn't think he could bear the thought of having to sit though the ins and outs of Wesley's dusty books. "But have you come up with anything at all that might help?" he asked, frowning.  
  
"Yes, well. I turned to the more recently written Book of Acaill, which is chiefly taken up with the law of torts and injuries. Piecing together what I've learned about an individual's identity being defined in terms of clan and personal wealth, I've been able to establish that you, as head of . . " Wesley paused, he wasn't too sure what Angel was head of any more. He began again, "As head of Wolfram and Hart's L.A. branch, you are considered to be of the highest rank. Think of it in terms of a being a nobleman. The honour price is a strange mutual dependence that existed between nobles and their clients."  
  
Angel couldn't contain his impatience any longer. Wesley in full research mode was just too much for him right now. "Wes, I really don't see where you're going with this . . . with the noblemen and clients."  
  
"This special client chose to insert the clause about the honour price for a reason," Wesley said, patiently. "You, as his modern-day 'creditor nobleman' stand to lose the most for a breach of the contract. Lower ranks would be fined a proportion of the honour price for each offence against the law, the full amount being required for the third offence. For someone in your position . . . " Wesley hesitated.  
  
Angel stifled his unease and waited for the punch-line.  
  
Wesley looked up from his paper. "The law demands most from those who have received the most. For a first offence, you are required to pay the full honour price."  
  
Angel felt a sharp pain in his gut. _The law demands most from those who have received the most. The full honour price. _"What? No three-strike's rule?"  
  
"I'm afraid not." Wesley removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "There's worse news, I'm afraid, Angel. Honour prices are central to the operation of Brehon laws. Clients seek out creditors with the highest status, to gain the highest honour price. Before we can work on a plan of action, we're going to need Gunn's help interpreting just what this payment involves and, if necessary, how to avoid it."  
  
And therein lay the problem. Gunn hadn't reported back with any information. Angel had paged him several times but had had no response. He'd resorted to the ultimate Wolfram and Hart weapon, the inter-office memo.  
  
----------Charles Gunn was a busy man. He didn't see why interpreting one clause in Angel's contract was so important. It was pretty straightforward, yet Angel was making heavy weather of it. Okay, the guy was not known for his incisive mind, but hell, what was it going to take to make him understand? He couldn't put it in any simpler form than he'd already done three times in the last twenty-five minutes.  
  
Gunn took a deep breath. "OK, let's take it one more time." He pointed to a paragraph in the document lying on the top of the files he'd arranged on Angel's desk. "This part here, where it says 'Progeny's Blood'. Just what's the problem?"  
  
"What does it mean?" replied Angel wearily. He was feeling giddy. This was Gunn's fourth attempt at interpreting the phrase and he still wasn't making any sense.  
  
Gunn turned to one of the files, opened it and took out a thick sheaf of closely typed papers. "According to the Interpretation Clause, Progeny's Blood is _'the blood of the progeny'_."  
  
"Yes?" Angel waited.  
  
"OK. Let's take _'Progeny's blood'_. Blood is defined as - _'life essence'_. Progeny is defined as -_'Your progeny'_."  
  
Angel raised his eyebrows. "Isn't there any more?"  
  
"More what? On progeny? That's _'Your progeny'_."  
  
"You said that already!" Angel tapped his foot impatiently.  
  
""Progeny _means_ Your progeny."  
  
Angel tried counting to ten. And waited.  
  
"_ 'Your'_ would be You - Angel, Angelus, Liam of Galway, as signatory to the contract."  
  
"I _know_ who I am," stormed Angel, leaving his seat, unable to contain himself any longer.  
  
"That's something then," said Gunn, calmly. "Is everything else clear now?"  
  
Angel felt as though he was living in a nightmare in which Gunn was speaking a foreign language. The words were familiar, but he was just as far from an explanation as he had been when they'd started over thirty minutes earlier. . 'He sank back into his chair, wiping a hand across his eyes, as if the action could make everything clearer, but it didn't. Restlessly, he leaned forward again, leaning his elbows on the desk and propping his chin on his open palm. He considered what Gunn was trying to explain to him, sighed deeply, and said, "So, according to your interpretation, my progeny's blood, is . . . my progeny's blood?"  
  
"You got it, Big Guy. Can I go now? Things to do, people to meet."  
  
Angel sighed again. There didn't seem much point in questioning Gunn any further. He was no closer to understanding the real meaning of the phrase than he had been when Gunn had entered his office, looking irritated at having been dragged away from 'more important things'. "No. That's fine. I'll catch you later if I need anything more."  
  
Gunn looked relieved, picked his files off the desk and left.  
  
Angel felt lost. Only Wesley seemed to be actively involved in searching for information that might help him. The others seemed oblivious to the seriousness of the situation; too wrapped up in departmental politics that seemed to have 'gone critical' according to Fred. Angel wasn't sure if she was using science-speak about departmental staff, or referring to something specific he'd rather not know about in the lab. And she wasn't the only one; Lorne had been out of the loop since they'd arrived at Wolfram and Hart. _Up to his horns in B-list celebrities and goodness knows what else_.  
  
Angel didn't know just how much of the previous two years had been wiped from their memories. What he did know was that he had a duty to try to put things right, to bring each of them back to the mission; to remind them just how they fitted into the family. But before he could do that, he needed to prepare himself, mentally and physically for the difficult task that lay ahead of him. Rallying the troops to the mission wouldn't be easy but he had to try. _And Spike?_ He preferred not to think about Spike. He was the one who had caused this whole mess!  
  
----------  
  
_Arms moving in fluid motion. Hands that had bestowed only pain on him, circling, extending, flexing pectoral muscles as they moved across the broad, naked chest. Beauty and grace. Fingers sweeping the air, barely disturbing it, delicate as a bird's wing. Power and control. _  
  
Spike watched with mixed emotions as Angel brought the final movement to an end. Angel, still oblivious to his presence, reached for the sword lying on his desk. The leaf-shaped blade bore witness to its Celtic origins, its double-edge glinting in the desk-light.  
  
Spike cleared his throat. "What are you doing? 'S a strange time to be practising the finer points of swordplay." He stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him as he did so.  
  
Angel paused, centring his body once more. Then he relaxed and replied, "There's an old Irish proverb, 'Am fear a thug buaidh air fhein, thug e buaidh air namhaid'."  
  
_Well that explains the no yelling about not knocking_, thought Spike. "Meaning?" he said aloud.  
  
"He who conquers himself, conquers an enemy." Angel returned the sword to its place on the wall behind his desk and retrieved his shirt from where he'd left it draped across the back of a chair in the centre of the room. "This isn't just any demon we're facing here, Spike. The contract is rooted in ancient Celtic Law for a reason; the honour price is just part of it. As head of the family, I'm the one responsible. According to clan tradition, if I lose face, I'm unfit to protect anyone. What's left for me if I lose that? Theid duine gu bàs air sgàth an nàire" _(A man will die to save his honour.) _  
  
"Another Irish Proverb? You really are still just a bogtrotter at heart, aren't you _Liam_? And what's with the notion of honour among demons? You don't fight fair with demons. You fight my way, dirty." beamed Spike. Before Angel could comment on his knowledge of Gaelic, he continued, "What's clan tradition got to do with anything anyway? We're not a clan."  
  
Angel wasn't going to argue the case of the Aurelius clan with Spike. "It helps me remember how things should be done. It'd do you no harm to do the same. When was the last time _you_ showed any respect for your ancestors?"  
  
Spike grinned. He was in a good mood. Even His Grouchiness couldn't dampen it. He'd enjoyed his time with Connor the previous evening. He'd felt connected somehow. It was his first time at a family event, the first time he'd experienced the atmosphere that came with cheering on the under-dogs and the consumption of too many hot dogs and too much alcohol-free beer. He'd been to a few football matches where he'd _eaten_ the supporters, but not one where he'd experienced simple camaraderie with a stranger. True, the fight had been an unexpected bonus. What he'd planned as a mischief-free night had provided a little fun with no blame that could be laid at his doorstep. Spike realised the absurdity of what had happened. Even before the fight, his restlessness had left him. Perhaps dying for mankind had done him some good after all. He wasn't letting Angel off the hook though. _Respect for your ancestors? Pompous bastard!_ "That would have been Mother. Um . . . before Dru found me," he said with a grin. "Don't recall you showing any respect for yours before. Ate the lot, so I've been told."  
  
Angel glowered at him and choked back a response to his impertinence. From what he'd heard, Spike's mother hadn't fared too well after he'd met Drusilla, either. But this really wasn't the time to go raking up the history of their respective human families. Besides, this wasn't just about their _human_ families - it went deeper than that. This was about kinship, not just about blood relations, but the family that had formed to fight alongside him, helping the helpless. He pulled his shirt around his shoulders and began fastening buttons. _Helping the helpless. When did I lose sight of that? _he wondered as he tucked his shirt into his pants and made his way back to his desk.  
  
Meanwhile, Spike had ambled over to the wall where Angel's weapons were displayed and was examining the elaborately carved scabbard into which Angel had placed the sword. "Where'd this sudden concern for respecting ancestors come from anyway?" Spike asked. "We're _vampires_, we don't operate the same as humans; I know that only too bloody well. Can't say that I ever enjoyed being part of the little group you and Darla abused. You never really accepted that I was one of you even then, did you?"  
  
"That's because you never learned your lessons. How many times did I come close to killing you because you refused to show proper respect?"  
  
"Pfft! You never did though, did you?" Spike swung round and faced Angel. "Why was that Peaches? Not man enough for the job?"  
  
"Not the issue. You were family, still are. Blood calling to blood. There were better ways."  
  
"Oh, you mean through Dru. You really did a good job on me there, didn't you? Made sure I was brought to heel every time she ran back to _daddy_. Rule by torment. Is that how you do things still?"  
  
"It's different now. _I'm_ different now. And so are you." Angel sat down at his desk and switched his computer on.  
  
"Doesn't look too different from where I stand. You're still doing things that affect everyone else to suit your own purposes. That's what got you into this mess in the first place. Did you honestly think that doing this deal would have no consequences? You should know better. Where magic's involved there's always consequences."  
  
"I thought you'd agreed to help," Angel snapped. "If your idea of help is lecturing me, criticising my methods, and raking up ancient history, I'll be better off without it . . .Why are you here, anyway?"  
  
_Keep asking myself the same thing._ "Hit a nerve eh?" Spike taunted. Something in Angel's attitude rankled. He really believed that he was head of this human family he'd damaged when he'd taken them into the belly of the Beast, and was searching for a way to bring them back together under his leadership and protection. _Only one way to do that, _thought Spike. _But he'll never agree to it._  
  
"I'm trying to make things right again, the best way I know how, by taking responsibility as their leader. Something you'd know nothing about." Angel confirmed Spike's suspicions.  
  
Spike had always been indifferent to rank, acting on the moment; he did what was right for him to do at the time. Nowadays he felt . . . What was it he felt? All at sea – rudderless - that was it. Once upon a time Buffy had been his guiding star; and he'd become her white knight with the bauble. But that fairy-tale was over. It had ended at the Hellmouth, where he should have ended too. "Mixed my metaphors good and proper there, didn't I? 'S what happens when you think too much." Spike whispered tracing the elaborately carved Celtic knots on the handle of the letter-opener on Angel's desk.  
  
He watched as Angel combed his hair, using the webcam as a mirror, just as Harmony had done earlier in the week. Spike sighed. _Can't be doing with 'should-haves'._ He was here, now, with Angel, not Buffy. Without her, he just didn't know why he should bother caring for anyone. But he did. Against everything that was logical, he cared about Angel's little screwed-up band. They'd not exactly welcomed him into their midst, but they hadn't rejected him either, not like that self-righteous bunch of hangers-on, the Scumbags. True, he hadn't tried to kill or torture any of Angel's lot, but they'd given him the benefit of the doubt. They'd even tolerated his demands for attention when he was all ghostly. And Angel? Well, no, he'd not exactly tolerated him; more like tried his best to get rid of, one way or another. But Angel was in most need of him sticking around.  
  
Spike hadn't exactly lied to Wesley when he'd denied that he was involved in a crusade, but he hadn't told the whole truth either. He recognised that Angel was the one who was lost, the helpless one in need of the help. Spike couldn't see anyone else able to give Angel what he needed, as no one else knew what was really going on. Why should he help Angel? Spike didn't know the answer to that one. But he knew he was going to help him. "Whether he likes it or not," he muttered.  
  
Angel switched off his monitor and looked across at Spike, who was examining the photos on the desk. "Did you say something?"  
  
"I said, what are you planning to do?" replied Spike.  
  
"Talk to them," replied Angel, switching off the monitor. "Make them see why we need to work together as a team; like we used to."  
  
"Talking? Oh that'll work!" scoffed Spike. "I _have _to be there when you try to avoid the whole topic of how you bolloxed things up."  
  
"You're not invited!" growled Angel. "I'm not letting you mess up the one chance I have of pulling things back together."  
  
"Don't need me to mess up, Peaches. You've already done that, and it's gonna take a bigger Band-Aid than anything you might have to say to patch it up." 


	6. Sins of the Father

**Chapter 6: Sins of the Father.**

* * *

Angel had prepared himself for what was to come later. He'd spent hours with the sword, practising, focusing channelling his energy, regaining an inner calm. He'd been trying to meditate, but the office wasn't exactly the best place to do that. He'd been interrupted too many times that morning by Harmony's insistence that he attend to trivia. And so Angel had allowed himself to slip into the more agreeable practice – of brooding. He didn't mind her interrupting that. He was worried by what Wesley had suggested, after his talk with Spike about his soul, and really didn't know if he could go through with it. It reduced him to dependence on Spike, who had beaten him so soundly over that damned Cup. Why had that happened? Had he wanted Spike to beat him to it, to take it from him, to spare him the pain and torment it promised? If that were true, what did that make him?  
  
"A coward." Angel spoke the words aloud. Was that how Spike viewed him? _He wore the amulet for Buffy because he thought I'd backed off - that certainly suggests he does. And if I let him do what Wes suggests for me_ . . . Angel's thoughts were interrupted again as Harmony's voice chirruped down the phone for the third time in ten minutes. This time, it was with something that couldn't wait. Angel had called a meeting.  
  
"It's 10 o'clock Boss. They're here."  
  
Moments later, Harmony entered the room carrying a tray. Wesley, holding the door open for her, was followed by the others. Gunn first, glancing anxiously at his watch. Then Lorne, hastily snapping shut his mobile phone and setting it to vibrate mode. Finally Spike, taking care to stub out his cigarette on the freshly polished corridor floor with his boot. He glanced at his Grandsire from under his lashes as Wesley closed the door behind him.  
  
"I told you, you're not invited!" said Angel, moving towards Spike, his hands reaching for the collar of his duster.  
  
Wesley quickly stepped between them. "I think, perhaps, we _do_ need Spike to sit in on this. He is working with us now after all, and he may be able to add something useful to the information you asked me to find on the demon he killed."  
  
Angel swallowed hard and lowered his arms. "Alright," he said. "But _you_," he jabbed a finger at Spike, "stand over there, where I don't have to look at you, and _don't_ interrupt."  
  
Spike smirked happily, gave him the V-sign and Wesley the thumbs-up.  
  
Wesley wondered what had happened since he'd last spoken to the two vampires. Their relationship was certainly mercurial and one that couldn't be fully understood by a human. He began speaking again before everyone had settled themselves into various seats, or in Spike's case the wall he'd selected to lean against. "Angel asked me to do a little research on the Gouki demon Spike killed."  
  
Harmony pouted, she hadn't had a chance to offer the refreshments she'd prepared and the meeting had already started. She knew that Angel expected her to leave the room and she really needed to talk to Spike. Throwing him a broad smile, she mimed a voiceless "Talk to you later," and left.  
  
Spike shrugged. He had no idea what Harmony might want and right now his mind was focussed on what Wesley had to say.  
  
"Spike, your demon was not of pure blood," he heard Wesley continue. "He's the eldest born of a Gouki, who goes by the name of Jenoff, and Jahi, a female Soul-Eater of the Khephn clan."  
  
Wesley's exposition was interrupted as the door burst open and a breathless, flustered Fred entered. "So sorry I'm late. Knox and I got caught up in something long and involved," she stammered, "and I just couldn't tear myself away without seeing it through to completion." She glanced, red-faced at Wesley who had fixed her with a steely stare over the top of his glasses.  
  
Angel waved her to the empty seat beside Gunn with a wry smile. _Everybody's busy. It's what they're too busy with that worries me._  
  
"The Kephn are just one rung below 'King' in the demon hierarchy," Wesley went on. "One might call them the 'Dukes of the Underworld'. The Gouki are virtually impossible to kill, being immune to all the usual weapons. Even decapitation doesn't work, apparently, since they possess a remarkable ability of instant regeneration."  
  
"Didn't notice mine doing any of that," said Spike "Must've taken after his mother's side then."  
  
Something clicked into place in Gunn's mind. "Sounds like the demon you cheated, Angel," he said. "Jenoff's calling in an old debt. Always knew he played a good waiting game. Didn't know he played _Revenge_ so well though."  
  
"Revenge is a meal best eaten cold," Angel murmured from his chair beside Wesley. _Gunn remembers the incident with Jenoff? How much more does he remember from that time?_  
  
"_Another_ Irish proverb?" Spike asked. "You gonna send us to sleep us with fairy tales of leprechauns as well?"  
  
"What?" Angel shot him a warning glance. "No. Just thinking out loud." He turned his attention back to Gunn. "It can't possibly be the same demon. That was over a year ago. We high-tailed it out of that club having lit the blue touch paper to a revolution. I remember leaving Jenoff under a pile of demons baying for his blood."  
  
"It would appear that Jenoff survived the attempted coup," Wesley continued. "But we don't know that he's behind the continuing attacks on students at USC, nor do we know why our departmental workers are questioning our authority. We need more information. Specifically, what is it that this demon demands as his Honour Price?"  
  
"I've a pretty good idea." All heads swung towards Spike.  
  
"Would you care to elaborate?" asked Wesley.  
  
"Not my place to tell," he grimaced. "Angel's the bloke telling the stories."  
  
Attention moved from Spike to Angel, who cleared his throat. He'd prepared himself for this moment. It was his one chance to make them understand the necessity of operating as a team again. It didn't matter who had been responsible for the disintegration, what was important was bringing them back together once more. He stood and walked over to the window. Turning his back on the view, he faced them and began. "You remember why we're all here?"  
  
"'Cos you called a meeting, you pillock! Get on with it," Spike heckled.  
  
"Not the meeting!" Angel glared at Spike. So much for hoping he might show him some respect. "What brought us together? What we're here to do? Why we stay together? The mission."  
  
"Mission!" Spike snorted. "'S that what you call cosying up to the enemy?"  
  
Angel ignored him and turned to Gunn and Wesley. "Angel Investigations was all about the mission. You guys taught me that. We helped the helpless, one by one." He addressed Gunn directly. "You've become obsessed with a job you didn't set out to do when you joined us. We thought we could do more from the inside of this place but that's not what's happening. We're losing sight of what we're really here for; and it's not playing golf or defending evil clients."  
  
Gunn opened his mouth to respond, but Angel held up his hand and cut him off. "You can argue with me after I've finished," he said firmly. "We're not working together as a team any more and it's showing. We're weak if we continue to operate separately. We can't change anything from within unless we're together in unity of purpose. All our strength is in our union, all our danger is in discord."  
  
"Longfellow," murmured Wesley_. "Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together_ - the coming together of the tribes."  
  
"Huh! Unity of purpose," scoffed Spike. "And we all know who's purpose you mean by that don't we?"  
  
Angel resisted the urge to knock the cocky expression off Spike's face and turned instead to Fred, who was nervously fiddling with her hair. "You're busy locked up in that lab with Knox, working on projects for Wolfram and Hart 'til the early hours. In fact, you're so wrapped up in that damned lab you keep forgetting to eat."  
  
"I have been working hard on the projects," admitted Fred. "But I _do_ eat, " she added indignantly. "I could be more efficient with my time management, I'm sure I could. It's just a question of organisation and I suppose a little delegation wouldn't hurt."  
  
"And Lorne," Angel swung round to face him just as he was reaching into his pocket to answer his vibrating phone, "you have your ear clamped to that _damn_ cell phone every time I pass you in the corridor. We just don't make time to support each other any more. It seems to me that we've lost sight of what we promised to do here. And it wasn't to indulge ourselves in all the pretty toys, or to party from one end of the week to the other."  
  
"I could re-schedule my 2 o'clock with J-Lo if that's of any use?" Lorne offered, removing his hand from inside his jacket.  
  
"Perhaps you should arrange a team building weekend, Angel," Spike smirked. "You could build a raft. You certainly need one. This ship's sinking fast."  
  
"Shut up, Spike!" Angel felt the strands of self-control beginning to unravel.  
  
"We should have a night-out," ventured Lorne, taking up Spike's theme enthusiastically.  
  
"What a wonderful idea," agreed Wesley. "Just what we need, time together. How about this evening?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry. I can't make this evening," stammered Fred. "I have to go over some tests with Knox and they really can't wait. What about lunch tomorrow instead?"  
  
"No can do, Sweetcakes. Final run-through of the schedule for Friday night, all day tomorrow. Working lunch included."  
  
"Well then . . . " Fred started again.  
  
"Anyone any objections to extending this meeting over lunch today?" asked Wesley looking round. "No?" he said before Angel could object. "Then all we need decide is where we eat."  
  
"I vote Chinese," said Gunn.  
  
"There's a darling little sushi place, Van suggested it, apparently their Akagai is divine . . . " began Lorne.  
  
Angel looked at them all in turn, a bemused expression on his face. _What are they doing? _  
  
"Not raw bloody fish," grumbled Spike. "What about Thai? They do this great hot . . . "  
  
"Nothing too spicy," said Fred. "I've been having a little problem with my digestion. I think it's all the late nights."  
  
"_You're_ not coming," snapped Angel, rounding on Spike. "I told you I didn't want you at this meeting, and you're certainly not getting a free lunch out of this. Besides – daylight - neither of us can go out to eat. We can't exactly stroll along the sidewalk checking out menus, can we?"  
  
"The others could check out menus for us," grumbled Spike. "There's nothing wrong with a quick dash from the car, under cover. Well, apart from a little smoking." He pushed himself off the wall and strolled over to Angel's desk. "Oh, forgot there for a mo'. The Big Cheese doesn't do undignified," he taunted, running his hands along the desk's highly polished surface.  
  
Angel felt all control of the meeting slipping away. His carefully prepared pep talk had been hijacked somehow. _How did that happen? _

Spike!  
  
"Angel, Spike is one of the team. We can't leave him behind." argued Fred, missing the point about the daylight entirely.  
  
"Why not?" Angel asked. "Part of the team? When's he ever . . . " He paused. "What are we doing? Arguing about food when there are more important issues at stake here? Can we just leave lunch arrangements to Harmony and get back to what I wanted to say to you all?"  
  
He picked up the phone and dialled. "Harmony, arrange for lunch to be brought in at One . . . What? . . . No, we haven't eaten the nibbles already . . . Yes I'm sure we'll be ready to eat at One. . . . No! I don't want you to come in and take everybody's order. Just . . . Get something simple that everyone can eat, Harmony."  
  
Angel put the phone back on its cradle and took a deep breath. "Let's get back to business and talk about Jenoff, our mysterious Special Client. Gunn, do you remember why I cheated him? _Why_ Cordy and I wouldn't let him take your soul? You were ready to give your _life_ for Fred and you trusted me to take a chance on a single cut of the deck. I wasn't willing to lose either of you. Not just because we'd lose a great demon fighter, but because I'd lose two friends, members of the family."  
  
"You were willing to kill _me_ yourself!" complained Spike. "And I'm more family than they are."  
  
"Not now!" Angel hissed. He turned to Fred, who sat gazing at Gunn, her eyes glistening with tears that threatened to spill over as she recalled how she'd almost lost him. "Fred," said Angel gently, "you could've gone back home with your parents, you felt safe with them. Yet you chose to stay here, in L.A. with us."  
  
The room began to glow with rosy warmth that had nothing to do with the heating system and everything to do with the memories that Angel's words had aroused.  
  
"Huh, at least she got to choose," muttered Spike, "I didn't have a say in the matter. If I had I wouldn't have bloody well chosen to come here in the first place."  
  
Angel scowled at him. "_I'm** -** **Going -** to** Have -** to **Ki-ll** - you_," he intoned through clenched teeth.  
  
Lorne's head snapped up. It had only been a snatch, but it was a song, of sorts. He looked at Angel in alarm as an image of a bloodied Wesley flashed into his mind, followed swiftly by a distraught Angel searching for something. _No, not something, someone. _Lorne closed his eyes to prevent Angel from spotting the fear he was sure to see if he kept them open.  
  
But Angel hadn't noticed. He was too busy trying to keep control of his temper. He took a deep breath and focused his mind on what he was trying to achieve. He turned his attention to Wesley. "Wes, you were the one who taught me I couldn't work alone, that to be effective, I needed the team with me, backing me up."  
  
Wesley had noticed Lorne's distress and was watching him closely. "Yes, I remember," he said quietly. "And you took me in, when I was working alone, gave me a place to belong."  
  
"And that place wasn't a building, wasn't the fancy cars or the high tech equipment or access to ancient books. It was wherever we were." Angel appealed to the others. "What brought us together was the same for each of you. Each of you was fighting demons of one sort or another, and each of you saw that we could do more together than we could alone. Something's gone badly wrong. We're not pulling together any more, we're pulling apart."  
  
"So, what are we going to do about it? What's your plan?" asked Wesley, turning his gaze away from Lorne and concentrating it on Angel.  
  
"I haven't got a plan. I need each of you to contribute to solving it. It's the family's plan - or will be when we've agreed one."  
  
"Um - when you say family, just where do I fit in all this?" Spike's voice chilled the air. The rosy glow disappeared.  
  
And with it, Angel's patience finally disintegrated. "I knew it couldn't last," he snarled. "I was wrong Spike, you haven't changed. You're just the same reckless, selfish, manipulating jerk you always were. The soul's not done anything about any of that." He strode across the room and jabbed a finger at Spike's face. "If it hadn't been for you, none of this would be happening. What makes you think you're fit to be in this family? When did you do anything for any of us since you arrived in L.A.? Let's see." Angel held up a hand in front of Spike's face and began to count off the digits. "One, tried to kill me. Failed. Two . . ." Angel never got to finish his list.  
  
Spike lunged at him and grabbed him by the throat. "Failed?" he roared, "Could've staked you - _twice_. Should have bloody well done it. That little talk over my hospital bed? Piffle! You _still _don't see me, do you?"  
  
Angel shook off Spike's hands, effortlessly, and pushed him away. "I see you. You haven't changed."  
  
"To be fair . . ."  
  
"There was the time he . . ."  
  
Gunn and Fred jumped to Spike's defence, but Angel was deaf to them. He and Spike were in each other's face again, the atmosphere charged with emotion.  
  
Spike clenched his fists and prepared to launch himself at Angel for a second time, then thought better of it._ No! 'S just what the sod expects. Proves he's right. _He took a step back, dropped his eyes from Angel's and appealed to Gunn. "You tell him, Gunn. Tell him about the other night with Connor."  
  
Lorne moaned and grasped his head. Angel froze.  
  
Gunn looked startled. "What're you talking about man? Who's Connor?" He swung his head looking round the room as if seeing it for the first time.  
  
Angel heard Gunn's voice rush away from him to the end of a long, dark tunnel, down which he was being pulled rapidly, backwards. The light in the office faded and swirled, dancing through the spectrum, from red to violet.  
  
"Charles!" Don't joke at a time like this." Fred gestured with her eyes at Angel. "The baby's been gone less than . . ." She stopped, looked blankly round the office, then back at Angel for a moment. "What was I saying? Oh, yes. Angel, you're forgetting the time Spike saved me from Pavayne."  
  
"Yeah – right! You tell 'im, Pet." Spike, still seething from Angel's verbal attack, nodded his thanks to Fred.  
  
Angel glanced from Fred to Gunn, to Spike, and finally Wesley.  
  
"Wes. What's going on?" he croaked, as the walls undulated and the windows darkened.  
  
"What's going on?" Spike began pacing round the room. "I'll tell you what's going on, you git. You're treating me like . . ." he struggled for the right words. "just like . . ." No. He wasn't going to mention Buffy's name. That would be like pulling the pin and hanging on to the hand grenade. "Changing your mind when it suits you, 'bout where I fit in and when. You're all 'Oh Spike, ol' buddy, have an office, we'll find you something useful to do, you're one of the family.' Next minute you're back to treating me like an outsider again. That's what." Spike's pacing adopted a rhythm to match his tirade; fast, furious. "Nothing I do is good enough for you is it?" he stormed. "Well, I'm done playing 'Mr Nice Corporate Guy'. I knew I shouldn't have got involved with this corner of hell you're running. Get someone else to baby-sit the kid for you. Anyone should do, right? It's obviously not important if Gunn can't remember who he is for more than 24 hours. Special project my arse!"  
  
All attention focused on Spike. He seemed to be the only one untouched by the swirling light and shifting dimensions of the room. They each felt something unravelling but couldn't quite grasp hold of what it was.  
  
Lorne tried to make sense of the vision he'd had but was struggling with the sickening giddiness caused by the floor rolling his chair like the deck of a boat on a stormy sea.  
  
Gunn searched his memory frantically. _Who is this blond guy and what was he talking about? What special project? And why am I wearing a wearing a suit? _  
  
Fred watched the ceiling fly away. _Where am I? - What am I doing in this place? I don't belong here. _She grasped Gunn's arm and curled up against him.  
  
The mist that had formed around Wesley cleared. He remembered! _A baby - Angel's son. Connor! Dear God, what have I done? _The blood turned to ice in his veins. Digging deep into his reserves of self-control, he was the first to break the silence that followed Spike's outburst. "I'm not quite sure just what has just transpired. But whatever it was, it seems to have been triggered by something Spike said."  
  
Angel tensed, waiting for a reaction._ How much do they remember?_  
  
"Oh. So it's my fault again?" asked Spike petulantly. He'd stopped pacing and come to rest against the wall behind Angel's desk. He checked his pockets, found a packet of cigarettes and began the process of lighting up in defiant breach of Angel's 'no smoking' rule. "Should've known."  
  
"Do try to stop being so tiresomely childish. Despite what your narcissistic tendencies lead you to believe, this is not all about you." Wesley shot a look at Angel, trying to read his expression. It was no use. Angel had closed down, his eyes firmly fixed on the floor, his hands resting perfectly still on the arms of his chair. He'd perfected the art of hiding his emotions so well. "However, as you seem to have something to tell Angel, why don't you start by informing us all what it is that you've done that's worthy of his respect?"  
  
Wesley appealed directly to Spike's deep-rooted, and deeply buried need for Angel's approval. And with it, Wesley bought Angel some recovery time. As they listened to Spike's story, the room gradually reverted to its normal proportions. The light regained its natural colour. Fred lost her startled 'rabbit in a car's headlights' look and relaxed her grip on Gunn's arm.  
  
"So, to cut a long story short, thumped a couple of demons, grabbed the boy, stole a bike and delivered him safely back to his dorm unharmed, as promised." Spike finished the story and turned his attention back to Angel, awaiting his reaction to his tale. He had relived the emotions he'd felt during the night out with Connor and frowned when he saw Angel's impenetrable stare.  
  
"You see!" squealed Fred. "We knew you could do it. Wesley was worried when Charles told him what he had in mind but we knew you could do it Spike." Fred left Gunn's side and gave Spike a hug, followed by a quick peck on the cheek, blushing furiously as she did so.  
  
Slightly taken aback by Fred's sudden show of affection, Spike covered his confusion with a gushing, "Yeah – And had a bloody good time doing it an' all. Haven't had so much fun while stone cold sober in an age."  
  
"Well that's good to hear. Well done. Just goes to show what can be done with a little team work." It was Wesley, not Angel who responded. "Now. Let's get back to business shall we? Angel, you were saying something about teamwork?"  
  
Angel lifted his head and looked directly at Wesley. _He knows! He saw everything begin to roll back and then stop. Why wasn't he affected like the others?_  
  
"Thought he'd finished," said Spike.  
  
"I have, for the moment." Angel spoke for the first time since Fred had mentioned his baby son.  
  
"Oh, thank God for that! Don't think I could take any more Pollyanna from you." Spike was thoroughly confused. He felt frustrated at taking part in something he didn't understand. What had just happened? The name, Connor, had done something to the others. They'd behaved as if they didn't know where they were for a split second there. _Did it have something to do with the mind-wipe?_ All he knew for certain was that he'd come close to fighting with Angel again and that would get him nowhere, fast.  
  
Angel, though, admitted to himself that maybe, just maybe, he'd judged Spike a little too harshly. He might doubt Spike's motive but he'd saved his son. Blood had called to blood._ Not that I'm ready to tell him that to his face. Not yet. _First of all, and most importantly, he needed time alone with Wesley, to find out just how much he remembered and what he intended to do. What Spike had just revealed had changed things irrevocably. There was no doubt in Angel's mind that the Connor who Spike had saved from harm was his son. Somehow Connor had been manoeuvred into place at Wolfram and Hart; the one place where his presence would cause Angel the most pain, one way or another.


	7. Families they really screw you up!

**Chapter 7: Families – they really screw you up.**

* * *

Spike lounged in his office chair, idly flicking through the TV channels. Angel had ended the meeting abruptly, shooing everyone except Wesley out of his office, telling them they'd meet up again in the evening for supper in his penthouse suite. Spike didn't know why he hadn't just left the building there and then. "Nowhere to go, mate," he muttered to himself. "At least, not on the bike. Middle of the day's not a good time to pick to ride off in a huff." That wasn't the real reason why he hadn't left, though, Spike admitted to himself. The _real_ reason had more to do with what had happened in Angel's office and less to do with the timing of his departure from Wolfram and Hart. Something wasn't right, and Spike was busy trying to work out just what it was. Something had happened during that meeting, something the others had experienced and he hadn't.  
  
"Nothing worth watching on the sodding telly any more," he grumbled. He'd just skipped past NBC three times while Sheridan was being electrocuted in the psychiatric ward on 'Passions'. Spike's attention wasn't on the screen, he was thinking about Angel's and Wesley's faces as he'd told the story of his night out with Connor. What was it Wesley had said? Something about weird happenings when he'd first mentioned Connor's name. What sort of happenings? He hadn't noticed any, except, perhaps, Angel ending the meeting when he did. Spike wondered why Angel had thrown them out before he'd completed his pep talk about working together as a team. _Not that it would've worked, anyway, talking to them_, reflected Spike as he surfed on past the news item showing Johnny Rotten's obscenity-laden outburst on 'I'm A Celebrity … Get Me Out Of Here!' _And what was so important about what he wanted to say to the Head Boy that the others couldn't share? Perhaps it had something to do with the mind-wipe? The name – Connor – could the boy be Angel's son? _  
  
The phone on his desk rang, making him jump. "Who. . .?" he yelped wondering who one earth could be phoning him. No one knew he was there, did they? Spike flicked off the TV and swung his legs down from the desk. He lifted the phone from the hook, eyeing it suspiciously, as if it might bite him. It was Angel. "Yeah," Spike drawled. "What do you mean _am I still here_?" he asked peevishly. "Oh, yeah, there was that whole '_corner of hell' thing._ What? No I'm not packing! What've I got to pack? Wes said . . . what?" Spike looked at the phone again. "Oh balls to this." He slammed the receiver down and leapt to his feet. _The Big Poof's really lost the plot. Phoning me - on the phone!_  
  
Spike swept down the corridor and into Angel's office, waving aside Harmony's attempts to gain his attention. "What's so important it can't wait, but not so important you can't get off your pampered arse to walk down the corridor?" Spike demanded, as he slammed the door shut behind him. "And do _not _start with how this whole thing is my fault."  
  
Angel rose from his chair and crossed the room to face him. "It's not," he said simply. "And I'm not going to try and convince you to stay. But Wes's convinced me that you need to be in on this." Angel paused and looked directly into Spike's eyes. "And . . .I . . . just wanted to thank you," he said quietly, "for the other night – with Connor." He dropped his gaze and waited for Spike's response.  
  
Spike lifted his eyebrows. "Well, bugger me. There's a turn up for the books. Didn't see _that coming_," he said sheepishly, looking down and studying his boots. "Percy been working you over long, has he?" Spike flashed a quizzical grin at Wesley. One glance at his face told Spike all he needed to know; the man was totally drained. "More like the other way 'round," he corrected himself. "Right! Both of you look as if you could do with a stiff one." He strode across the office to the drinks' cupboard and pulled out the bottle of Powers and three glasses. He filled the glasses and handed one to each of them.  
  
Angel and Wesley continued to eye one another nervously.  
  
"Look," said Spike, "I don't know what's gone on between you two, but you didn't call me just so's Angel could do the grateful grovelling. Not that I mind the grovelling," he smirked. "Could suffer a lot more of that!"  
  
"Don't push it, Spike." Angel said slowly, fixing his eyes on the contents of his whiskey tumbler.  
  
"Calm down, Gramps. Come on. Drink up, the world'll look a lot better through the bottom of an empty glass. Always works for me. Well – not always, but I enjoy testing out the theory."  
  
----------  
  
The whiskey bottle was empty. Spike leaned back in his chair and contemplated the glass in his hands. "Figured he must be your son," he said. "Didn't that night o' course, couldn't put my finger on why his blood smelt so familiar. And the way he moves . . . " Spike shot an embarrassed glance at Angel, "He has something of your style, Angel - you should see him fight."  
  
"I have," murmured Angel, staring into the middle distance.  
  
Wesley cleared his throat and spoke for the first time since Spike had entered the office. "Angel and I are agreed that Connor needs to be watched and protected." He stopped and looked at Angel. "We're not in agreement about what to do about Gunn or Fred or Lorne," he added wearily.  
  
"Wes thinks they should all be told," said Angel. "I'm not so sure." He turned to Spike and frowned. "What do you think?"  
  
"Since when did you care what I think?" asked Spike. "Oh – does it come with the whole grovelling thing – part of the package?"  
  
Angel growled a warning.  
  
"Spike, please," appealed Wesley. "We really haven't the time or energy to massage your bruised ego. There's an innocent life at stake."  
  
Spike looked at Wesley's anguished face._ Poor bloke. Looks like he's just re-lived the whole thing all over again._ Realisation dawned on Spike. _That's just what happened earlier._ For some reason, Wesley had remembered everything and the others had just had snatches of memory that they'd lost again. "An innocent's life," he whispered.  
  
Angel nodded, swirled the remaining whiskey round his glass and drained it in one gulp.  
  
_He heard me! _Spike felt a wave of sympathy for both vampire and human wash over him. _Get a grip, Spike. Don't go all gooey and sentimental just because you shared a moment in a hospital room. He's still batting for the wrong team here. This isn't just **any **innocent, it's his son._ "Right," Spike said aloud. "What do I think? Well, Peaches knows what I think. He was in the wrong, the moment he agreed to the whole mind-wipe gig." Spike held his hand up to stop Angel interrupting. "That's something that can't be undone." Spike turned his attention to Wesley and watched him closely as he asked "But how can _you_ be sure that telling the others won't bring about what you're trying to avoid - Connor's death - eh?"  
  
Wesley considered for a moment, twirling his empty glass in his fingers, watching the light catch in the finely cut Waterford crystal. "I can't," he admitted. "But I don't see how we can continue to work without their co-operation."  
  
"Seems to me there's two separate problems here," replied Spike, "and you need to decide which is more important - the boy in need of protection - or this whole deal with . . ." He threw his arms wide indicating the room in which they sat, and sighed. "I'm not about to buy into any of _that_, though I suppose the office might be counted against any pleas of innocence I might have; and I can't see what _you_ got out of it at all." Spike gave Wesley a questioning tilt of the head.  
  
"A new pen, it seems," murmured Wesley.  
  
Spike blinked, shook his head and turned to Angel. "Boy are _you_ gonna get roasted extra bien cuit for this."  
  
Wesley looked from one vampire to another and wondered what he'd missed but found no clue in either of their expressions, Spike's full of mockery, Angel's of resignation. "Let's get back to what you were saying about priorities and what we're going to do about keeping Connor safe shall we?" he suggested seriously. "We need someone to keep an eye on him at all times."  
  
"Well that rules out Spike and me for the daylight cover, despite the cars. Can't protect him from behind glass," said Angel. He rose from his seat and walked over to the window. The lights were going on in the office blocks across the way. Angel looked down into the street below, guilt clutching at his heart, squeezing his throat. _The streets I vowed to clear,_ he thought. _The streets I barely notice any more._ "We can do the night time shift, but I don't want the Wolfram and Hart people involved in this. You're going to have to take on the daytime one, Wes." He turned to face Wesley. "Any ideas?"  
  
"I believe I have," replied Wesley. "I'm going to extend Spike's idea of why _William Sanguinaire_ is here at Wolfram and Hart, and give _Professor Wyndham-Pryce_ a reason to be on campus at USC. I just need to check Connor's subject choices and have the relevant paperwork prepared that instates me as a visiting guest speaker. Then all I have to do is pick up the phone and call in a favour. I can be in place by tomorrow afternoon."  
  
Spike watched Angel as he looked anxiously out of the window at the darkening sky._ We – he said we! Working together again. _"It'll be dark soon," he observed. "Why don't we leave the Paper Boy here to do what ever it is he does in the privacy of his own office and go do a sweep for any evil that might be lurking on campus?"  
  
Angel's eyes lit up. He turned and beamed at Spike. "Fighting evil, out on the streets again? We'll take _my_ car."  
  
----------  
  
"I got the car back safe and sound, didn't I? S'not like I left it there. Quit complaining," Spike snapped, as Angel turned off the freeway and into the University Park Campus.  
  
"Stop trying to change the subject, Spike. All I wanted to know was why you'd forgotten to tell me you'd kept the bike.  
  
"'Cos mine's buried at the bottom of a bloody great hole, along with everything else in Sunnydale," Spike explained, through gritted teeth. He'd sulked throughout the whole journey. Angel had spotted the Harley in the garage and had questioned him relentlessly about it, refusing to let him drive and switching the radio to K-Mozart. _Bloody control freak._  
  
"It wasn't yours to begin with," argued Angel. "You stole that one as well."  
  
"From a rampaging demon!" yelled Spike exasperatedly. "How many times do I have to tell you?"  
  
"That's not the point," Angel yelled back. "Besides, this one wasn't from a demon."  
  
"Could be!" pouted Spike. _His whole 'Holier than Thou' attitude is really starting to piss me off. What's one bike compared with twelve cars?_ "How d'you know it wasn't?"  
  
"Just get it back to its owner, Spike." Angel pulled the car into the parking lot outside the student dormitory building. "Look!" he said, gripping Spike's arm and pointing behind him. "There he is!" He'd spotted Connor on the steps leading to the entrance to the building chatting to two other college boys. Both vampires concentrated on the conversation taking place, automatically screening out all intervening and background noise.  
  
"Well, I'm gonna hit the books," they heard Connor tell the others. "First assignment's due in a few days."  
  
"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" the dark-haired companion on his left inquired. "We could go to 14 Below. Tracy'll be there. I heard her telling Cass she was going to check out the new band playing tonight."  
  
"Tempting, Mikey, tempting. What're you trying to do - make sure my grades are lower than yours this semester?" Connor asked. "I just _know_ you've finished this assignment already. There is no way you'd hustle for a night out so close to the deadline if you hadn't."  
  
"Yeah – like I need a scam to get higher grades than you. Who beat you all through junior high?" Mike gave Connor a playful shove.  
  
"That was junior high. You haven't come anywhere near me since," said Connor, returning the push with a light punch to Mike's shoulder.  
  
"When you guys are done, take a look at this." The third member of the group had gone ahead of them into the building and re-appeared carrying a sheet of paper. He handed Connor the notice he'd taken down from the bulletin board in the hall. "Looks like the warning Professor Forsyth gave us at the end of class was serious."  
  
Connor began reading. "_The number of attacks on students has increased over the past two days. While no attack has resulted in any fatalities, the victims have all been seriously injured. These recent attacks have taken place off-campus, and the campus security advises all First Year students to stay in their dorms in the evenings until further notice._"  
  
"Well, there's _my_ excuse all neatly wrapped up," said Connor. "'Motivation and Emotion', here I come."  
  
"You find anything interesting on decoding emotions in non-verbal expressions?" asked Mike, as the three boys sprinted up the stairs and in through the door.  
  
"So, looks like he's having a night in with his chums," said Spike. "All's well. What're we gonna do? Quick sweep of the campus, then home to supper with the others?" Spike turned to look at Angel.  
  
Angel's eyes were fixed on the space Connor had just vacated._ He looks exactly the same as he did on the video. Happy, at ease with himself and with his friends_. "Sweep?" he asked, dreamily, opening the door and stepping out under the streetlight. "Yeah – let's do that."  
  
"So, if you're his dad, does this make him my uncle, then?" Spike wondered aloud as they walked towards the back of the building and into the woods. "I had an uncle once. Wasn't a bit like Connor. In fact, now I come to think of it, he was a lot like you – uptight, pompous, arrogant bastard who thought he knew what was best for me."  
  
Spike walked on, still talking, while Angel fell behind to stop and give the front of the building one last look.  
  
"Doesn't feel right having an uncle who's young enough to be my great, great, great great grandson," Spike continued. _Never had the chance to be a father, let alone a great anything_, he thought wistfully. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his duster and pulled it closely around his body, hugging himself, to keep out both the chill of the night and the twinge of envy he'd felt observing Angel's adoring gaze. "Is that enough greats do you think?" he asked, stopping to let Angel catch up with him. "Never was much good at maths."  
  
Angel gave him a friendly slap on the side of the head. "Shut up, Spike!"  
  
----------  
  
The supper had not been a success. Spike could feel the tension caused by the division among Angel's friends. _Those in the know and the know-nots_, he mused. The conversation had been polite enough, but the bon-homie felt forced. Gunn was still seething from Angel's attack on his work practices. Fred was late - again, and defended her time with Knox with greater vehemence than she'd done earlier in the day. Lorne was absent altogether. He'd left a message with Harmony saying he had a migraine and was lying down in a darkened room with his medication. According to Harmony, he'd ordered a large bottle of something blue, and 70% proof, to be sent to his apartment. Lorne had told her to bill the Entertainment Department for it, on the grounds that it was a 'necessary tool of the trade'.  
  
Everyone picked at their food. Wesley chased noodles from one side of the plate to the other, barely putting a single forkful near his mouth. Fred sipped a few mouthfuls of chicken soup and pulled a bread roll to pieces before leaving her spoon in the bowl. She spent the remainder of the hour they were together folding and re-folding her napkin, making various origami shapes and avoiding everyone's eyes. Gunn didn't even pick up his knife and fork, devoting himself to working steadily through the second bottle of claret Angel had provided instead. Angel hadn't ordered anything to eat, and he drank the wine with little enthusiasm, wondering how he was going to get through the evening without letting something slip.  
  
Spike had surprised himself by being unable to finish the portion of spicy buffalo wings Harmony had ordered for him. _Takes a lot to put me off my nosh._ "Well this has been a barrel o' laughs," he quipped as he stood up to stretch his legs. "We really must do this again sometime soon. How about next century?"  
  
"Spike!" Angel glared a warning. "You guys look tired," he said, turning to Gunn and Fred. "Why don't you have an early night? I'll check in on you both tomorrow." Angel walked them to the elevator. "Is that OK?" he asked.  
  
Fred nodded slightly. "I am tired," she said. "Perhaps a good night's sleep is what I need." She put her napkin down and looked at Gunn. "Would you like me to drive you home, Charles? You've had rather a lot to drink."  
  
"Sure, little bit of TLC won't do me any harm," replied Gunn, returning Wesley's questioning gaze defiantly. "Why not?" He drained his glass and rose from his seat, pushing back his chair carelessly causing it to topple over.  
  
Spike was standing just behind him and caught the chair before it hit the floor. "Thought you could hold your grog better than that, Chuck," he said, putting a steadying hand on Gunn's arm.  
  
"I just need to pick up a few things from the office, then I'm outta here," Gunn said, shrugging off Spike's arm. He took out an envelope from his jacket pocket, turned and handed it to Spike. "If you're still interested in the job, there's a meeting you should attend tomorrow. It won't take long."  
  
Gunn stepped into the elevator after Fred and turned to face Angel. "I know what you meant this morning. And I'm _not _talking about the Jenoff speech. I won't forget what you said to me in a hurry! No amount of pep-talking me back to the beginning is gonna make up for that." He pushed the button for the ground floor. "You just don't get it, Angel. I don't need a Daddy any more. I'm a big boy now."  
  
The door to the elevator closed, leaving Angel staring at the polished metal.  
  
Spike turned the envelope over; it was addressed to William Sanguinaire. "That went well, all things considered," he said, eyeing it nervously. "Do you think they noticed anything, Angel? What with us not threatening to kill one another every five minutes an' all?"  
  
"I think you may have managed to distract them with your stories of how you had Angel tortured and helped Buffy kill him to avert the Apocalypse," replied Wesley caustically.  
  
"Huh, yeah," Spike chuckled. "Did you see how Charlie Boy's eyes lit up when I described . . . "  
  
"Gunn's starting to seriously bother me," interrupted Angel. "Did you notice his eyes change colour? It was almost as if he was turning into . . . "  
  
"The Big Cat," finished Wesley. "Yes, I saw that too. He may well be a threat to all of us, so the sooner we can solve the problem of Connor's safety, the sooner we can turn to the larger problem. I'm beginning to suspect the two are not as separate as Spike suggested they might be."  
  
"We could just find out 'bout that tomorrow," said Spike, holding the envelope out for Wesley to inspect the name on it.  
  
"Aren't you going to open it?" Wesley asked? "It's addressed to you."  
  
"Think I'll let you do that. Tend to get bit iffy about envelopes addressed to me coming to this place."  
  
Wesley tore open the envelope and pulled out two small pieces of paper stapled together. "It's a memo from the legal department. Connor will be coming in to sign some financial papers concerning the scholarship tomorrow afternoon. That's all it says." Wesley gave Spike an enquiring glance. "Why would you be expected to attend?"  
  
"Not a clue. But this whole set up is beginning to smell. Who else is going to be there?" Spike took the memo from Wesley's hand and studied the second page. "No one I've ever heard of; just some bloke from the legal department and a Trustee. "  
  
Angel was worried by Wesley's analysis of the problems they were facing. If Wesley was right, the thought that Gunn might pose a threat filled him with foreboding. Gunn was not the only one who was acting in ignorance; there was Fred and Lorne to consider. Was it just co-incidence that Lorne's migraine came on during the morning meeting? Or that Fred's usual compliance with his requests had turned to defiance?  
  
"Wes," he said finally, "we need information on this scholarship." He turned to Spike. "Didn't you say that Connor didn't have to compete for this award? That it was just handed to him?"  
  
Spike frowned and thought for a second. "What he _said_ was that he fulfilled the criteria."  
  
The three men looked at one another, each reaching the same conclusions about the next course of action.  
  
Wesley was the first to speak. "I'll chase up every piece of information I can find about this scholarship, and the sponsor."  
  
"And I'll dig out everything that's on file about Connor," Angel added.  
  
"And I'll . . ." Spike stopped. He wasn't good on the research. It bored him and he allowed himself to be distracted by things that took his fancy. "I'll go and see if there's any footy on the telly tomorrow night. Then if needs be, we can keep him here after the meeting without rousing anyone's suspicions."  
  
"Was that a good idea you just had?" asked Angel. "Keep this up and I might . . ."  
  
"Let me keep the bike?" Spike asked, grinning.  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't go that far, " said Angel. 


	8. The Generation Gap

Chapter 8. The Generation Gap.

* * *

Connor stood up and shook hands again with the slight, dark Englishman who had just outlined the summer vacation work-placement to him.  
  
"Thank you very much, Mr Kane," he said.  
  
"I wish you every success, young man," replied Kane. "I'm sure you deserve every experience the Company has to offer."  
  
Spike had remained silent throughout the meeting, which had been brief and to the point. Connor had been offered the opportunity to observe various sections of the firm at work throughout the Summer Vacation. He would earn his maintenance allowance by working in the Archives Department each morning, leaving the afternoon free for observation and work shadowing. This sounded straightforward and above board to Spike. But what concerned him was the man who had been introduced to him as Eden Kane. The name rang a bell, and so did the face, but the two did not belong together, Spike was sure of that. He opened the door and nodded his goodbye to the man, studying his face one last time, in the hope that he'd recall where he'd seen him before.  
  
"That's neat, don't you think?" asked Connor, as they walked down the corridor towards Spike's office. "I get to stay in my room and earn some study credits."  
  
"A little too neat if you ask me," muttered Spike. He hoped Wesley had unearthed some information on the origins of this scholarship before anything else happened to threaten the boy. It had been a week since he'd killed Jennof's son and, although there had been no more demon attacks after the night of the football game, the college authorities were still on high alert. Angel and Wesley were agreed on one thing, this meant that Connor had been identified by Jenoff's henchmen as Angel's progeny. However, neither of them was sure how the Blood Clause was linked to Connor's scholarship.  
  
"Professor Pryce?" Connor caught sight of Wesley coming out of his office. "I didn't expect to see you here. It's Connor," he elaborated, misinterpreting Wesley's look of panic as one of incomprehension. "I was at your lunchtime lecture."  
  
Wesley fiddled with the papers he was carrying and glanced at Spike, who shrugged. He couldn't be expected to anticipate Wesley's movements in the building.  
  
"I'm here on business," replied Wesley. "What brings you here?"  
  
"The same."  
  
"I'm just taking Connor to watch a spot of footy," interrupted Spike. "Want to join us, Wes?"  
  
Connor frowned. "You two know each other?"  
  
Spike mentally kicked himself and grimaced, looking to Wesley for help.  
  
"We're – um – working on a project together," said Wesley. "It's – um -"  
  
"About the nature of gang culture and violence on the terraces," Spike finished for him. "That's why this match is so interesting. See, it's what we call a local Derby – Man United against City. A bit like your Yankies and Confederates, or the Wars of the Roses or . . ." he stopped, noticing Welsey's raised eyebrow.  
  
"It's a little more local than that, surely?" Wesley's voice was acerbic. What on earth was Spike thinking?  
  
"Well," said Spike, leading the way past Harmony's desk, "that's one of the things we'll have to thrash out, isn't it?"  
  
Spike's progress was halted by Harmony calling to him. "Spike!"  
  
He cringed. _Silly Bint_. Did she have to use that name? "Not now, Harm!"  
  
"Yes, now, Buster. You've been avoiding me for days."  
  
"I'm busy," he hissed.  
  
The phone on Harmony's desk began ringing, but she ignored it. "Too busy to check your e-mail? You should, you know, every day. You never know what you'll miss if you don't. There's a message about someone you really need to go and see."  
  
"The phone, Harm," Spike insisted, marching on. His heart lurched. Who would he really want to see? Buffy? He stopped in front of his office door and closed his eyes, seeing once again Buffy's tear-stained face as he told her to leave him at the Hellmouth. Wesley had assured him that Giles would say nothing, that his wish to contact Buffy in his own good time, would be honoured. He swallowed and clenched his jaw. He'd check his mail later, _much_ later.  
  
"Make yourself at home," he said to Connor, waving a hand in the direction of the sofas.  
  
Connor looked from Spike, to Wesley, and back again. The uneasy feeling he'd experienced at meeting Wesley in the corridor had increased when he realised that 'Will' and 'Professor Pryce' knew one another. Co-incidence? Perhaps, but Connor was more than a little surprised when Harmony had called Will 'Spike', and intensely curious as to why these two very different Englishmen were working together on such an implausible sounding project. _Violence on the terraces_? It was such a European phenomenon. Why come to the US to study it?  
  
The academic project was not the only thing concerning Connor. He was unable to work out why it was that he felt so at ease with Will/Spike and so uneasy about Professor Pryce. Within an hour of meeting Will, he'd fallen into the kind of easy banter he enjoyed with his family and friends, despite the fact that he found things about him so contradictory. A college professor who fought the way Will did was not something Connor had come across before. An Oxford professor whose taste in music and hairstyle seemed to be stuck somewhere in the middle of the punk era was something else Connor couldn't quite accept. Professor Pryce fitted his idea of what an Oxford professor might look like, more closely than Will did.  
  
Connor shook his head. It made no sense. He trusted Will, whereas the other man sent a shiver of fear down his spine.  
  
Spike noticed the slight head shake. "You changed your mind? Suddenly remembered a previous engagement?" He'd sensed the boy's fear and tilted his head at Connor as a challenge.  
  
Connor returned Spike's gaze and accepted the dare. He'd stay and find out just what was going on. After all, this was a respectable law firm, one which had provided him with a generous scholarship and now the opportunity of an internship. It was unlikely that he could come to any harm within these walls.  
  
"No," he replied, "not changed my mind. Just wondering how you two came to be working together."  
  
"Oh, that's easy," replied Spike motioning the TV, which was tuned to Dishnetwork's English Premier League. "Mutual love of the game. That right, Wes?"  
  
Wesley, too, had been unnerved by Connor's reaction to meeting him outside his office door. He'd inwardly cursed himself for his ill-conceived plan of adopting the Professor Pryce persona. His only excuse was that he'd been in a state of total shock at regaining his memory of all the events of the previous year. A major feature of that shock was his deep guilt at the part he himself had played in Angel's loss of Connor. In fact, he reasoned it was guilt that he enabled him to regain his memory in the first place, when he'd watched the video Angel had received. Not guilt about Connor, but about Lilah, about his failure, in the end, to save her.  
  
_And now my stupidity has roused Connor's distrust_, he thought. There had been no need for Wesley to appear on campus as visiting Professor Pryce. Campus security was tight, and, thanks to Gunn, they had known of Connor's appointment with the scholarship Trustee.  
  
_Still, what's done is done, and can't be undone_. Wesley wondered just how many times he'd hear that phrase before they solved their problems.  
  
----------

Angel could hear the reaction to the match before he turned the corner of the corridor leading to Spike's office. And he could smell something, too. It was a little like bread being toasted but there was something different that he couldn't identify.  
  
"It should have been more," he heard Spike say. "Four – two is nothing on the home pitch. City haven't beaten us at Old Trafford for 30 years."  
  
"Yes, but they were one man short. If Neville hadn't been sent off . . ." Angel heard his son leap to his team's defence.  
  
"Bloody stupid bugger." Spike snorted his disgust. "It took all of Howard's skill as a goalie to stop City running away with the match. That save of Barton's point-blank range shot was nothing short of miraculous."  
  
"Huh! Arason did the same with Giggs's shot in second half," argued Connor. "I still say United is nothing without Beckham. Fergie should never have let him go to Spain."  
  
Angel pushed open the door just wide enough for him to observe what was going on without being seen. Wesley, with his back towards him, was busy making tea and toasting something hidden from view behind the teapot. Spike and Connor sat side by side on the large leather sofa, examining a magazine. Strewn on the table in front of them were several photographs and old newspapers.  
  
"They're nowhere near the team they were _before_ Beckham," scoffed Spike. "This team's a bunch of fairies compared with the 1968 squad. Look," he pointed at one of the photos, "_that's_ the team that first brought the European Cup to England. "_There_," he turned to another photo," is the holy trinity, Charlton, Law, and the Irish Boy Wonder, Georgie Best. That boy could move – pure poetry in motion to watch." Spike looked up from the photo and caught Connor's quizzical expression. "What? Haven't you seen the old footage? There was a special on a few years back. Best's 50th birthday. Showed all the classic games." Spike sighed. "Shame how he's gone to the dogs."  
  
Angel watched as the two heads bent together, pouring over the magazines, the blonde silhouetted against the dark, each stirring very different emotions. He heard Connor say something about Best and poke Spike in the ribs.  
  
Angel felt a sharp pang of jealousy as Spike grabbed Connor playfully in a headlock and cried, "Take that back! No way is Beckham better than Best. The Big Fairy's whipped by that Missus of his."  
  
Connor laughed gleefully and the two of them fell to the floor, rolling in a mock-fight, scattering photos and newspapers as they fell.  
  
"Children, children," chided Wesley. "Have a care for those, they're historical documents. If I'd known they were falling into the hands of two hooligans, I'd never have brought them out of my archive."  
  
Wesley carried a tray over to the table and set it down. Spike and Connor ceased their wrestling match and picked themselves up off the floor, gathering the fallen papers as they did so.  
  
"Sorry, Profess . . . Wesley," said Connor. "But he is," he shot at Spike. "Fitter, stronger, more stamina . . ."  
  
"It might interest you to know," interrupted Wesley, "that the professional ballet dancer is fitter than the average Premiership footballer."  
  
"I heard that," said Spike. "Don't believe it though." He flung himself back on the sofa and helped himself to a couple of crumpets from the tray. As he bit into one of them, the butter immediately ran down his chin. "Where'd you get these? Haven't had one in years. Don't you just love it when the butter does that?" He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and continued eating.  
  
Angel marvelled at Spike's ability to enjoy life. He envied him this seemingly effortless capacity for finding pleasure in the small, very human, everyday actions of eating, drinking and enjoying the company of others; the other, in this case being Angel's own son. _When did they get to be such great pals_? Angel wondered. He wanted to put a stop to any feelings of friendship Connor might be developing for Spike. His own relationship with Connor, even at its best, had never been like this, except in his dreams. What was Spike up to?  
  
"Lorne found a bakery on the Internet that specialises in English products," Angel heard Wesley tell Spike. "They supply us with crumpets and scones made to order."  
  
"Lorne?" Connor asked.  
  
"Our Entertainment Manager," explained Spike. "Throws great parties." Spike grinned and looked up, reaching to take the paper napkin Wesley was holding out to him. "The Jolly Green Giant was a big hit, eh Wes?"  
  
"He's on sick leave at the moment," Wesley added hastily, giving Spike a warning glance.  
  
Angel hesitated in the doorway. He didn't know if he could face Connor without betraying his feelings for him. But he needed to speak to Wesley about the communication he'd just received from Jennoff demanding the payment of the honour price. Angel took a deep breath and stepped into the room. In the same instant, Connor took his mobile out of his pocket and answered its insistent ringing.  
  
"Connor. Oh, hi Mike. No I haven't forgotten, I'll be back in time. Thanks for reminding me. See ya." He snapped the phone shut. "That was my room mate," he said, turning to Spike. "There's a ten o'clock curfew. He was worried I'd miss it."  
  
"There's plenty of time. I'll run you back if you like," Spike offered.  
  
"You've time for tea before you go," added Wesley. "Won't you try one of these?" He held out the plate of crumpets for Connor to select one, noticing Angel's presence as he did so. "But first, let me introduce you to our CEO. Angel, this is Connor, Wolfram and Hart's scholarship recipient."  
  
"Pleased to meet you Mr. . . ." Connor rose from his seat and hesitated uncertain of the correct mode of address.  
  
Angel grasped Connor's outstretched hand and shook it firmly. "It's Angel, just Angel." He gazed at Connor and resisted the urge to pull him into a close embrace.  
  
Connor stiffened and released Angel's hand. _Cold, just like Will's_, he thought. But that wasn't what made him loose his grasp. He'd felt a charge of energy _just like an electric shock_ as their hands had touched.  
  
Angel turned on his heel without another word and left the office. Spike and Wesley exchanged knowing glances and continued the activities they'd started as Connor and Angel shook hands. Wesley poured three cups of tea and buttered more crumpets. Spike finished putting the photographs and papers back into the storage folders in which Wesley had delivered them to his office earlier that day.  
  
They drank their tea in silence, each lost to his own thoughts, until Spike finally decided he couldn't stand it any more. _Typical bloody Angel, he thought, spoiling everyone else's fun 'cos he never gets to have any_. With a sigh, he stood up and walked over to a cupboard beside the door, pulled out his duster and put it on. He reached onto the top shelf and took down a motorcycle helmet and handed it to Connor. "Time we were off, then, if we're to get you back before curfew."  
  
----------  
  
"Is that the bike from the other night?" Connor asked, as he and Spike approached the Harley Spike had parked in Angel's garage.  
  
"No – just looks like it."  
  
"It is!" Connor's eyes lit up. "It's got the scrape from the fire hydrant you hit."  
  
"Uh – well – yeah, OK. Fair cop. It's the same bike."  
  
"So we're riding a stolen bike out of one of the biggest law firms in L.A.," observed Connor. "Why do I feel this is something else I don't want to know about?"  
  
"'S not stolen, more . . ." Spike checked the traffic as he swung out onto the highway and searched for the right word, "Commandeered. That's it."  
  
"Is that legal?"  
  
"Dunno," Spike admitted.  
  
"You work for a law firm and you don't know?"  
  
"I told you, I'm not a lawyer. "Just visitin'."  
  
Connor decided to voice his fears. "You're weird, you know that? In fact, I'm beginning to think this whole set up is beyond weird. It's surreal. You, Wesley, the scholarship. I mean just how many co-incidences can one person suffer in a day? And I have to tell you," he went on before Spike could stop him," that CEO of yours is creepy."  
  
Spike pulled onto the sidewalk and stopped the bike. _Time to come clean_, he thought. "You're right. There are too many co-incidences. Truth is. I'm not a professor, visitin' or otherwise. I've been hired as a sort of bodyguard, to keep an eye on you."  
  
Connor removed his helmet and studied Spike's face, finding it difficult to understand what he'd just heard him say. "A bodyguard?" he asked incredulously. "Why would I need a bodyguard?"  
  
"Because . . ." Spike scrabbled frantically for a plausible explanation that wouldn't reveal the truth about Connor's identity, "your father has enemies who want to harm you."  
  
"My father has no enemies," Connor said evenly.  
  
_Oh yes he has_, thought Spike, but before he could respond with something more convincing, he fell to his knees, his head reeling from a blow to the back of his skull. The demon attack took him completely by surprise this time. He'd failed to notice them appear from the shadows as soon as he'd brought the bike to a halt.  
  
"Will!" yelled Connor, struggling to free himself from the grip of two demons who'd grabbed him as the third had struck Spike.  
  
Spike staggered to his feet. He could feel the trickle of blood on the back of his neck from the wound caused by the head of the axe that was descending for a second blow. Spike blocked its descent with his right arm and grasped hold of the axe handle with his left hand, wrenching it from the demon's grip. Using the demon's own momentum, Spike rolled forward, pulling it onto its knees, thrusting the tip of the curved blade into its face as he did so. There was a sickening crack as metal met bone, followed by blood gushing from the hole in the demon's head as Spike continued to drive the blade upwards, splitting the skull in two. The demon crumpled and fell, twitching for a moment before finally lying still in a puddle of its own blood. Spike picked himself up and looked over to where Connor had been standing beside the bike.  
  
Connor had managed to free himself from the two demons who'd held him and was fighting furiously for his life. This wasn't like the fight in the football stadium; these demons were armed with knives and seemed intent on killing rather than capture. Connor was already covered in wounds and was beginning to flag.  
  
Spike closed the gap between him and Connor in a flying leap, knocking one demon down and slicing its head off with a single sweep of the axe. As Connor was brought to his knees by a stab to his side from the surviving demon's knife, Spike hurled himself towards them. "No . . .. o!" he screamed, vamping out as he did so. The demon recognised he was no match for Spike. He side-stepped Spike's charge and jumped onto the bike. Roaring away along the sidewalk, he called "Tell your boss he can't avoid payment any longer, vampire."  
  
Spike dropped to his knees, resuming his human features as he did so. He examined Connor who was slipping in and out of consciousness. Connor was losing a lot of blood from the wound in his side. The other wounds were more superficial but this one needed immediate attention. Spike lifted up Connor's jacket and jumper and winced at the sight of the gash that was visible through the tear in his T-shirt.  
  
"Connor, I'm going to have to lift you," he said gently. "It's gonna hurt but I need to get you to some help."  
  
Connor moaned and opened his eyes. "Will?"  
  
"'S all right, you're gonna be all right," Spike reassured him. "I'm gonna try to stop the bleeding but you have to help me." Spike tore a strip from the bottom of Connor's shirt and folded it into a pad. "Now, hold this against your side," he said, pressing the pad into Connor's hand and placing it against the wound. Talking to him and encouraging him to stay awake the whole time, he lifted Connor carefully in his arms and made his way slowly back to Wolfram and Hart,  
  
---------- Spike had felt sure that Angel was going to kill him this time. He'd taken Connor to Fred's lab and, after satisfying himself that he was in no real danger, he'd left her administering first aid and feminine tenderness to the wounded boy.  
  
Eventually, Spike tracked Angel down to his apartment where he'd apparently retired after yet another disagreement with Wesley. As he told the story of why he'd had to bring Connor back to the building, he had the distinct impression that Angel was less interested in Connor's physical state and more in why Spike had disobeyed him once again over the bike. According to Angel, the latest attempt on Connor's life was Spike's fault for not taking one of the cars. It was more than that, it was Spike's_ stupidity_ that had caused the threat in the first place. _One step forward, two steps back_, thought Spike.  
  
"You _told_ him?" Now Angel was into the topic of truth telling – _his_ version.  
  
"Not exactly. He doesn't know you're his dad. He thinks his real father is the one with the enemies." Spike called through the door Angel had slammed in his face when he'd retreated into his bedroom.  
  
"_I'm_ his real father," stormed Angel opening the door and glaring at Spike, barely able to conceal his anger at being unable to protect Connor himself.  
  
Spike desperately wanted to shake Angel out of the charade he insisted on continuing to play. He'd willingly handed Connor over to the care of another family, but was reluctant to release his need to control how that care was provided. The fingers of Spike's hands twitched as he suppressed the urge to grab Angel by the throat. The frustration at not being able to make Angel see that it was time to start telling the truth to everyone was taking its toll on Spike's patience, not that he had much of that to begin with where Angel's modus operandi was concerned. Angel was the one for games of cat and mouse, always had been, certainly when Angelus was in the ascendant anyway. Spike was all for the full frontal attack, fists and fangs, and failing that, boots and head. He had no time for the waiting game, the psychological torment before the kill. As far as Spike was concerned, time had run out. Jenoff was calling in the debt and, having failed by the most direct route of capture and kill, was about to employ the legal beagles to do the job for him. Spike looked at Angel's face and sighed. There was no point in trying to reason with him, he was looking for a scapegoat. Spike experienced the sinking feeling in his stomach that told him he was the fall guy.  
  
"Where is he now? Is someone taking care of him?" Angel asked walking slowly over to the window.  
  
Spike considered Angel's concern for his son's well being to be a step in the right direction at last. "I left him with Fred. She's patching him up."  
  
"She shouldn't _have_ to patch him up. He shouldn't have been injured in the first place. I told you to lose that damn bike. If you'd done as you were told . . ." Angel turned away from Spike and looked out into the night sky.  
  
_One step forward . . . _"I thought you were over blaming everything on me!" Spike could contain himself no longer; it was time to have it out with Angel, although it was one thing to ask Angel to be truthful about Connor's real parents, quite another to expect the boy to accept his father's true identity. Connor was a smart kid, he probably wouldn't believe it, and would be sure to ask a lot of questions._ What a mess_, thought Spike wondering why he'd allowed himself to get caught up in the web of lies and deceit. He wondered how he was going to raise the fact that he'd vamped out during the fight and he couldn't be sure that Connor hadn't witnessed it.'.  
  
Angel hadn't heard what Spike had said. Angel didn't _want_ to hear anything Spike had to say. "I never should have trusted you to take care of him," he berated him. "I should have listened to Wes. Kept him here, with me."  
  
Spike's patience finally snapped. "And just how would you have done that?" He grabbed Angel's arm and swung him round, his eyes glinting dangerously. "He already thinks you're a creepy old man. Trying to persuade him to stay the night? Screams pervert to me!"  
  
Angel slumped against the window as Spike relaxed his grip on his arm. All his anger drained away, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. Why had Spike been sent to Wolfram and Hart? Was it to torment him? Angel tried to rid himself of the image of Spike and Connor enjoying one another's company in a way he never had. His dreams of teaching his baby to walk, taking his little boy night fishing and teaching his teenage son to defend himself, had all been taken away from him, leaving just the nightmare, the reality of the killer Connor had become. Angel dropped his gaze from Spike's eyes. He couldn't face this other child; the one who had fought his own way back from the Darkness; the one who had chosen to fight to become a better man, not had his memory wiped and replaced by false ones.  
  
Spike watched Angel struggle with his emotions. He reached out one hand to pat him on the shoulder, but drew back quickly as Angel raised his eyes and looked at him sadly. "Things are looking up. He's safe now," said Spike. "We're all together, three generations under one roof. What a team we'd make, eh? The Three – Musketeers, the Three . . ." Spike paused, he'd already run out of heroic threesomes. Somehow the Three Stooges didn't match up to the image he was trying to create. "Anyway, you get the picture."  
  
"Yeah," said Angel, wearily. "Trouble is. I don't know what will happen when he finds out. And he will find out. The court hearing's in two days, unless Gunn can arrange a deferral."  
  
The door of the elevator swished into action, revealing Charles Gunn carrying a large box file. "I've got something for you," he said to Angel, "by way of a peace offering. I'm trying for a deferral. And you might like to take a look at these files. Something's going on. Something we need to put right."  
  
The phone beside Angel's bed began to ring. Angel hesitated just for a second before saying, "Answer that will you, Spike? I need to speak with Gunn."  
  
Spike lifted the receiver and listened as Fred gushed her relief at finding him down the earpiece.  
  
"I thought you'd gone back to your apartment," she said. "And I don't have your number, so I wondered if Angel had it and then I didn't know whether to call him because of all that unpleasantness the other night and . . . "  
  
"Hey, slow down, slow down," said Spike, "you'll burst something if you keep that pace up too long. I'm here, not going anywhere. Least, not yet, anyway. How's Connor?"  
  
"That's what I wanted to tell you," replied Fred, lowering her voice to a whisper. "He's going to be fine, but he needs to sleep and he says he can't go back to his dorm because of some curfew." Fred sounded puzzled and anxious.  
  
"I'll be with you in a tick, pet," Spike soothed her. "We'll sort something out for tonight." He replaced the receiver on its cradle and looked over to where Gunn and Angel sat, sifting through the content of the box file and talking quietly. It looked to Spike as if Gunn had recovered from whatever resentment he'd been feeling the night before and was genuinely exited by what he'd found.  
  
"That was Fred," Spike called to Angel. "I'm going down to sort out a bed for Connor for the night."  
  
Angel looked up from the paperwork he was perusing and studied Spike's face for a moment. He desperately wanted to see his son, to check for himself that he was going to be fine. But he realised that what he wanted to do and what was reasonable for him as CEO to do, was incompatible. Creepy old man. He didn't want Connor's view of him to be based on that notion.  
  
Angel sighed; he hated the idea that Spike was the only person in the building who Connor trusted. "Put him in your office for the night," he suggested. "And Spike," he added as Spike crossed the room to the elevator, "stay here yourself."  
  
Spike nodded his assent and stepped into the elevator. As he descended to Angel's office, he considered, again, why he'd decided to stay at Angel's side, instead of working alone, or making his way to Europe, to Buffy. It all boiled down to belonging. He'd belonged in Sunnydale, fighting alongside Buffy right to the end. Now, there was nothing left. _No more Sunnydale, no more Buffy._ She was still alive, and even living happily ever after in Rome with Dawn, according to Andrew at least. That was why he'd set her free from him, why he'd been happy to die as her Champion. What was he was going to do about letting Buffy know he was alive? He was no closer to working out the answer to that question. He'd asked Andrew to let him do it in his own time, in his own way, and the right time would come. Now, though, there was Angel's problem to consider and the complication of Connor.  
  
As he walked into Fred's lab and caught sight of Connor's battered face and bandaged hands, Spike decided he belonged at Wolfram and Hart, for the time being. The decision to stay had nothing to do with his relationship with Buffy, being a Champion, or having a soul; it was about family, _his _family, Angel and Connor. 


	9. Blood Lines

****

Chapter 9: Blood Lines

Winifred Burkle smiled fondly at the sight of the blond vampire struggling at the keyboard of his computer. Amused, she had to resist the temptation to take over and retrieve his emails for him, if only to stop the stream of abuse he was hurling at the monitor. She glanced over at Connor curled up on the sofa bed opposite the window. _Still asleep. One less thing to worry about for the moment then._

"Stupid bloody thing!" Spike, flicked the mouse across the desk in disgust. "_Why_ is 'Spike' an incorrect username? My name's Spike and I'm using this gismo." He turned to Fred for support, a frown of frustration creasing his forehead, which was still streaked with blood from the earlier battle. "You're the expert, help me out here."

"Well," Fred chose her words carefully, knowing how battered Spike was feeling from his latest encounter with Angel. "You're right. Computers are stupid. This one can't think and has the intelligence of an earthworm. Did Harmony tell you _anything_ about your logon details?"

"No, she didn't. Just gave a vague threat about me needing to read my emails." Spike paused, frowning again. "But Wes mentioned something about computer controls when he gave me the tour. Said he'd write things down..." Spike rummaged through a pile of post-it notes, muttering "DVD, telly, Teasmade – right – computer. Okay, . Username WtB, password Blondiebear."

Spike went back to his task and Fred marvelled, not for the first time, at his ability to switch persona in the blink of an eye. He'd appeared in the medical wing after her phone call to Angel's penthouse, seething with resentment and barely concealed anger. Although Fred had her own worries, she couldn't fail to notice Spike's concern for Connor. Nonetheless, Spike was hiding something from her, but all he would say was that Angel blamed him for what had happened.

"'There are 25 unread messages in your inbox'. 25! I don't know 25 people with email."

"It doesn't mean . . . " Fred began.

Spike cut her off. "_Welcome to WRH dot com mail service_ . . . . blah blah blah. That's not important. _Special offer on all PowerDVD upgrades_. Nope. _Your PhotoShop Pro 8 trial licence has expired_. Really? Should I care? _Special offer. Bumper packs. Viagra at low, low prices_. Hah! P'raps I should forward that to His Holier-than-Thou-ness? A spot of satisfactory nookie might loosen him up a bit." Finally, he turned back to her. "Junk mail?" he asked incredulously.

"It's one of the downsides, If you check who each one is from, you can just delete the Spam without reading it."

"_Spam_?" He raised an eyebrow. "The stuff posing as meat - in cans?"

"It's actually a term coined from a Monty Python sketch."

"Never figured geeks going for Python – not that I'm accusing you of being a geek," he added hastily, "'cos you're not." Spike's voice softened, as he smiled gently up at her from under his lashes. "Not like any geek I've ever met, at any rate – 'cept Willow perhaps – without the threatening mojo."

Fred blushed and dropped her gaze from his. She wished Spike wouldn't do that, make her remember she was a woman, just when she needed all her powers of deduction to work out what was going on. She cleared her throat and scanned the monitor.

"You can delete all these," she said, pointing at the files, "But these last five are from Harmony."

Spike sighed and turned his attention back to reading, grumbling softly to himself as he did so. As Spike seemed occupied for the moment, Fred turned back to her laptop and studied the notes she'd been making before calling Angel's apartment. She added a reminder to herself to check when exactly Wolfram and Hart's mail server had changed its name, and why. She wondered just how much Spike knew about what she'd discovered about Connor. The boy's condition had puzzled her since Spike had brought him into the lab, barely conscious. The wound to his left side was deep and he'd lost a lot of blood, but by the time she'd rung the medical team and had begun cleaning him up, Connor's superficial wounds had already begun to heal and he'd begun to ask questions.

----------

The medics wheeled a protesting Connor into the medical centre, while Fred took details of his blood group and medical history. She'd done her best to reassure him that they would contact his parents, Lawrence and Colleen, only if it was absolutely necessary. At first, the surgeon had thought that the stab-wound to Connor's side might have ruptured his spleen. It had bled profusely and there had been some discussion about operating and the need for blood. While the Med team fussed over Connor's condition, Fred took the opportunity to check his file. As she read through it though, something didn't add up. The blood group recorded as his did not match either of his parents. Curious, and keen to look into it further, she returned to her computer to see if she could find out more'.

__

He could have been adopted, or a surrogate, she thought and quickly ran a search for a match in Wolfram and Hart's files, drawing up a short list, before relaying the information to the surgeon. Luckily, the list proved to be unnecessary. None of Connor's major organs had been damaged, and he had stopped bleeding, as the wound had been successfully closed with Dermabond. There was no need to operate after all.

Given the all clear, Connor was eventually released from the medical centre and into Fred's care. She'd been given a list of instructions for administering antibiotics and painkillers throughout the night. However, the name at the head of Fred's list spurred her to further research as they waited for Spike to return from his confrontation with Angel. By the time Spike appeared, Fred - with Knox's help - had run DNA checks on everyone on her short list. Two names had emerged as clear matches.

There was no doubt in Fred's mind that Connor's father was Angel and his mother was Darla.

----------

"Bugger it!" Spike snarled, interrupting Fred's thoughts about how to broach the subject of Connor's lineage with him. "If Harm's got something to tell me, why didn't she just _tell_ me?" He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, snagging them in dried blood from the wound he'd sustained when the demons had attacked. Inwardly he'd breathed a sigh of relief at discovering the mysterious '_someone who really wanted to speak to him'_ wasn't Buffy.

"Security, probably," replied Fred. "It's possible to find your way into any files, if you know how." She gestured at the dried blood under Spike's fingernails. "Would you like to take a shower to get rid of that before you go anywhere? You can use the one in my lab. I've some really nice Tea-Tree shampoo that will help with the healing." She glanced over at Connor. "That first dose of Kadian should be beginning to wear off about now so we should make it quick."

"Good idea, love. Then we can settle the little 'un down for the night, before I go find Harm and talk to this barkeeper she's so keen for me to meet. Hope I don't owe him anything, I'm all out of reddies."

----------

"Do you think we should let Angel know what's going on?" Fred asked as they walked down the corridor. "I mean, he was so upset about Connor's injuries and it would set his mind at rest if he knew that he was safe in your office for the night." Fred studied Spike's face, watching for a sign that he knew anything about Angel's connection with the boy.

"S'pose we'd better, Pet. Not that it'll let me off the hook. As far as Angel's concerned, I'm an incompetent idiot who couldn't be trusted to . . ." Spike stopped and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Never mind," he sighed. "P'raps you'd call him while I shower eh? Tell him the boy's OK. It'd be better coming from you."

Fred took his hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "OK," she said quietly.

Spike looked down at his hand entwined in hers – and remembered the last time he'd held the hand of a woman about whom he cared. He gently pulled away and stuck both his hands in the pocket of his duster. This was not the time for memories – or new relationships. He had enough to worry about with the relations he already had.

The desk light was on in Wesley's office as Spike and Fred passed it. Peeking in, they could see Wesley slumped at his desk with his head on his arms, which were folded across a pile of books. The monitor was humming softly as the screen saver glided slowly across the screen.

"Looks like we're not the only ones spending the night here," whispered Spike as Fred softly closed the office door, leaving the ex-Watcher seemingly asleep on top of some of Wolfram & Hart's most ancient tomes.

As the door latch clicked quietly shut, Wesley's head snapped up and he passed a hand across his weary eyes, wiping the last of the tears off his face. He tapped the computer mouse with the tip of his index finger. The monitor cleared the swirling image and revealed a message that had appeared when he had opened the pages concerning _The Old Ones_. Words that had plunged him down into the darkness of his memories.

****

Now is not the time.

When the Old One awakes,

Then shall the son stand beside the father.

Blood will flow and thwart the enemy.

Wesley turned to the pile of notes he'd made when he'd looked into the details of Connor's scholarship. His eyes narrowed and he clenched his jaw with determination as he read again a name he'd underlined and highlighted.

"Ethan Rayne," he hissed.

He checked his shotgun to make sure it was fully loaded and headed out into the night, in search of the man who had set in motion the threat to Connor and subsequently, the attack on them all.

----------

Angel poured the last of the coffee from the pot he'd made for Gunn, as they went through the contents of the box he'd brought to Angel's apartment.

"Let's get this straight," said Angel, gesturing to the papers strewn across the table. "You're telling me there are _two_ lots of files on Connor?"

"Yeah. And they're identical, right up until the night . . . "

"Spike killed the demon."

"Except we're not sure that's what happened. It's beginning to look like this whole thing was manufactured. There always was a plan to get Connor into Wolfram and Hart - just not yet. He was being kept as the insurance policy against you ever leaving or going back to fighting from the outside."

"So what happened? Why the change of plan?" Angel fidgeted in his chair, swivelling it away from Gunn towards the elevator, aching to move.

"It doesn't appear that there was a change of plan," Gunn replied. "From what I've managed to work out, there's been some interference by an outsider, hired by Jenoff. The Rayne Foundation only came into being the day Spike recorporealised..."

Angel interrupted, "That doesn't make any sense. Jenoff's own son was killed. What sort of father would go for that sort of deal?"

"He's a demon. One who'd sacrifice anyone to get what he wanted. His being father of the victim's not really the point, Angel. What we're dealing with is two different realities. The one we're in now is. . " Gunn stopped, struggling for the words to make Angel understand something with which _he_ was having difficulty. "It's just not meant to be, OK? Reality is breaking down. I'm getting memories back about Connor and Cordy, and I'm losing the powers I got when we came here. All I know is that we need to put things back the way they should be. "

Angel looked at Gunn, saw the pain of loss in his eyes. "I know," he agreed, reluctantly. _I never got to say goodbye to Cordy either, never let her know how I felt about her, never kissed her the way I should._ "She just slipped away from us, Gunn. It wasn't supposed to end like that for her, I feel it."

Gunn nodded sympathetically, rose to his feet and strode towards the elevator. "I'm going to see if the White Room's still there and talk to the Big Cat if it is. Maybe that'll help."

Angel pushed aside the uneasy feeling he had any time Gunn mentioned the White Room. "We need to fill Wes in on what we've got here, see if he can make more sense of it than we can. Maybe he's turned up something in the scholarship papers." Angel reached for the phone and stopped mid-dial. "On second thoughts, a tour of the premises is called for," he said, pulling on his jacket. "Might be the last time we get the chance."

As the two men stepped into the elevator side by side, Angel turned to Gunn. " Meet me in Spike's office when you're finished, will you? I want to gather everyone together, make sure everyone knows what's going on. No more secrets, we face this together. "

Gunn dropped his eyes to the floor and, nodded his head in agreement. The two men stood in silence as the elevator descended to Angel's office. Angel stepped out of the elevator without a backward glance, and strode down the corridor towards the medical centre, planning what he was going to say to Connor when he got there.

When he doors closed behind Angel's receding back, Gunn looked up again. He'd kept his eyes firmly on the floor as the elevator dropped down from Angel's apartment. Now, as it journeyed back upwards, he gritted his teeth as he prepared to confront what he knew was waiting for him in the White Room. When he thought of the feline he knew would not be there, his eyes turned yellow and narrowed. The elevator stopped and the doors opened, silently, allowing the chill of cold air to rush into his lungs as he took a deep, calming breath. "Let's see how things go down this time, Charles," he growled, stepping out towards the man he'd come to fear more than any other since Cordelia's death -, the person he was becoming and from whom there was no escape.

Himself.


	10. Family Connections

Chapter 10 – Family connections.

Thanks to my wonderful beta, **Bogwitch**, who has continued to work on this for me through very difficult times. Thanks also to **Late Starter** for taking over while Onetwomany is at WriterCon.

The dialogue used in the conversation between Connor and Spike at the end of this chapter is not mine. It comes from _Origins_, where the conversation was between Connor and Angel.

* * *

"No. Really, Angel, he's fine. Amazingly so, given what he's just been through. We put him on the sofa bed in Spike's office. . . . "What? No. The surgeon thought he'd be better there than in the Medical Centre. He was . . ." Fred paused, choosing her words carefully. "He was a little freaked at the sight of demon medics at first, so he'll need a familiar face around when he wakes up. Right. Give us twenty minutes. Spike's just finishing his shower. We'll meet you back in his office."

Fred closed her cell phone and looked over at the shower, just as a freshly scrubbed Spike emerged wearing her bathrobe and towelling his hair.

"Pink's not exactly my colour, Love. But thanks for the loan." Spike rubbed his hair vigorously and looked across at her.

Fred stood, with mouth slightly open gazing at the apparition in front of her.

"So, how'd he take it? Still breathing fire and out for my blood?"

Fred continued to stare at him in wonder. His damp hair full of unruly curls, blue eyes searching hers for a comforting sign. He looked so slight dressed in her bathrobe, so small without the bad-boy costume of black and leather. _So vulnerable_, she thought. _Like a fallen angel_. "Not at all," she said gently. "In fact, Charles has discovered something important. We're meeting in your office. Angel wants to talk to _all_ of us. He's trying to track down Wesley and Lorne now."

"Oh well, fine," Spike thought for a moment. "S'pose the barkeep can wait a bit longer. I'd better get dressed then." He gestured towards the door next to the shower. "Just give me a mo."

"Spike," Fred called as he closed the door of the dressing room behind him, "I've something to – um – I found something, while the medical team was working on Connor."

Spike stopped towelling his chest and looked up at the door, his eyes narrowing in concern. "Yeah? And…, er,… just what might that be, Pet?"

"Well. You know that Connor was bleeding a lot when you brought him in. He was really badly injured from that stab wound . . ."

Spike frowned. What had she uncovered?

"We needed to find a blood match fast. There was none suitable in stock, so I ran a check on his files – and those of his parents."

Spike waited, hoping against hope that she hadn't looked too deeply into the files. _Fat chance. This is science-girl we're talking about. She doesn't give up. She digs deep_.

"They didn't match, Spike. Neither of them." Fred paused, waiting for a response. She rubbed at the steam on the glass. _It's on the inside, Fred; you can't remove it from out here. _"Can you hear me in there? Silly question, I suppose. Vampire senses. I keep forgetting."

"I can hear you," Spike said quietly. "Go on."

"At first I thought, 'Oh, no worries. He could be adopted, or from a surrogate. So I decided to run a check on employees to see if I could find a match there."

"And did you?" Spike pulled on his black jeans and searched for his boots under the towels he'd dropped. Fred knew. _The clever little thing's worked it all out._ _Why is she beating about the bush like this?_ "

"Well yes, I did. We have an extensive biometrics database, maintaining a range of forensic quality identifiers on all our subjects. Cross matching the Human leukocyte antigen test results produced a short list of potential donors who could be easily reached in a very short time."

"Huh?"

Fred ignored him and continued, warming to her topic, gathering speed as she did so. "Everyone on the short list was male - which is interesting don't you think? I mean the proportion of males to females working here is pretty much 50/50, so you'd think there would have been some women on the list. But that wasn't the only reason it was interesting. Something _pinged_ in the back of my mind when I read the list. Something I thought I knew, but I couldn't quite catch it. But I had a hunch, so I decided to follow it."

See? Doesn't give up. Just like trying to work out how to make me all corporeal again. Spike remained silent, not wanting to interrupt her flow, wondering how much she was going to reveal, and when.

"The presence of a specific antigen indicates a particular genetic marker. Parentage blood testing is based on the principle that the child inherits genetic markers in his blood from each of his biological parents." Fred shifted from one foot to another, irritated by having to talk to a door. She wanted to see Spike's reaction to what she was revealing.

Spike picked up his blood-spattered T-shirt and stared at the stains. _Blood, it always comes back to blood_. He bit his lip and felt the metallic tang on his tongue. Slowly, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the streak of red covering his knuckles. _My blood, Drusilla's blood._ _Angel's blood_. He looked towards the door frowning. _Would a check on my blood lead to them? What about mother?_

Fred stepped closer to the door and put her hand on the doorknob. "A check of the mitachondrial DNA gave me a lead to the mother, and a small tissue sample on her card file. Some of the files were classified and hidden away - like in the Fort Knox section." She giggled nervously and rolled her eyes at the analogy. "But Knox got me in. Sort of through the back door, so he said. He has access to all sorts of things I never knew existed." Fred paused. "Though I don't quite know how he got into these, because they're bio-tech protected, so that means he must . . ."

"Knox had to go to Fort Knox to get these files? Does he have family connections?" Spike asked easing his T-shirt over his head, trying to flatten his hair into submission as he did so.

Fred frowned at the interruption. Was Spike _deliberately _misunderstanding her analogy? She took a deep breath and continued. "I was able to set up a Polymerase Chain Reaction, that is to genetically photocopy enough of the mother's DNA to compare her nucleic DNA with Connor's to establish which part she had contributed. That left me with the code which had come from the father."

Spike thought for a moment. "You lost me, Love, 'round about mitachondrial DNA"

" Mitachondrial DNA is the code that is passed on, unchanged, from mother to offspring." Fred stopped, no longer fascinated by the scientific investigation she'd carried out, but concerned about the consequences of her findings. "Um, Spike?" Her voice softened. She put her hand on the doorknob again and began to turn it. "Do you know who Connor's mother and father are?"

"I do," he whispered stepping close to the door. "And so do you. Don't you, Pet?"

Fred opened the door. She looked into Spike's eyes and her own filled with tears. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't Angel tell me? Don't you trust me?"

Spike felt a surge of anger and dropped his gaze from hers. He didn't want Fred thinking it was directed at her. He picked his duster off the coat-rack and sighed. " I would've told you ages ago, but it wasn't for me to tell."

"Do the others know? Am I the only one who didn't?" She searched his face for reassurance.

Spike eyes softened again. "You all knew, once," he said. "Long story," he added, seeing her puzzled look. "Bottom line, Angel didn't tell _anyone_ what happened to Connor. He had his reasons," he said softly, wiping a tear from her cheek. "He didn't mean to hurt any of you."

Fred leaned her head against Spike's chest as he gently stroked her hair. "So why do I feel like this?"

Spike lifted her chin and looked deeply into her eyes. "Something to do with the gap in your memories my guess." He brushed her cheek with his fingertips, then squared his shoulders and stepped away from her. "We'd best be getting back," he said, "Connor will be awake soon with questions about this place that need answering. God alone knows what Angel is planning to say to him." _Or to the rest of you, for that matter._ "You OK, Pet?"

"Not really, I mean, it's not everyday you find out that there's a huge hole in the world where your memories used to lead." Fred locked the door to the lab with shaking fingers and held the arm Spike offered as they walked back towards his office.

"You know," she said brightly. "We know _that_ Darla and Angel are Connor's parents. What we don't know is _how_." She blushed. "I mean, we _do_ know_ how_, obviously, but we don't understand how it was possible for two vampires to produce a normal healthy human." She stopped and tilted her head slightly. " I have this theory about genetic engineering . . . "

Spike smiled. _That's more like it!_

----------

Angel looked at Gunn and slowly shook his head in disbelief. Things couldn't possibly get any worse. _Could_ _they?_ "No Big Cat?"

Gunn stared at the floor in front of Spike's desk and didn't respond.

"So, what _was_ there? Was the room even there, this time?" Angel lowered his voice so that he wouldn't wake Connor.

Gunn nodded, refusing to meet Angel's enquiring look.

Angel prompted again. "Was there _anything_ there?" Gunn looked smaller, somehow, slumped in a chair, refusing to make eye contact. Angel had never seen him so traumatised.

"Not a _thing_ – a _one_."

"A one what?" Angel glanced anxiously over his shoulder at Connor stirring slightly on the sofa bed. _Don't let him wake up until Spike gets here_, he prayed silently.

"_Some_one," Gunn intoned looking blankly into the space beyond the window.

"Who? A new conduit? Like the little girl?" Angel stood up and crossed the room to where Connor lay. He picked up the blanket that had slipped onto the floor and gently replaced it over his son. "Get a move on Spike. What's taking you so long?" he muttered under his breath.

"No – Yes - No, not like the little girl," Gunn looked at Angel in anguish. "A man."

"Did he help? Did you get _anything_ out of him?"

"Only a beating," Gunn said quietly. "And a lesson I won't forget in a hurry."

"What? I don't understand. . "

"I told you, Angel. Reality's unravelling. We don't belong here. We have to find a way home. There's no way through the White Room any more." Gunn sank back into the chair and closed his eyes. "Did you get Wes?"

"I tried his office but it's locked and he's not answering his phone."

"Watcher was sleeping the sleep of the just on top of a pile of books last time we looked." Spike nodded at Gunn. "Looks like Chuck could do with a spot of the same."

"How long have _you_ been here?" Angel asked, turning to face the younger vampire. He was surprised to see Fred standing in the doorway, holding Spike's arm as if she would collapse without the support he was providing.

"Long enough to know we've got more problems than we deserve if we're talking unravelling realities. We've already got Fred's alternative universes to consider." Spike replied.

"Alternative universes?" Fred's found alternative universes now? Here?" Angel looked bemused.

"I never said alternative universes. I was talking about genetic engineering and the possibilities _that_ would provide for vampires."

Spike led her over to an armchair, watching Angel's face as he did so_. Things are hotting up, he thought. Talk of vampires and genetics from Fred, unravelling realities from Charlie Boy. What next?_

Spike looked on with concern as Fred lowered herself into the chair, crossing her arms in defence against the next emotional attack on her already shaky confidence. "Oh, was _that_ what you were on about? Keep telling you, Pet, can't expect me to keep up when you go all science-girl." Spike smiled gently at her. "I'm still stuck in the Industrial Revolution, or the Dark Ages, according to _some_ people." Spike focused his attention on Angel and jerked his head in Connor's direction. "How's the boy?"

"If that's me you're talking about – the boy's awake. And chock full of questions." Connor eased himself into a sitting position and reached for the shirt on the arm of the sofa. "Is anyone going to tell me what happened in the medical ward? Who – what were those things that did all those tests on me?"

Spike moved quickly through the room and sat on the sofa arm, gathering his thoughts together before he spoke. "They're good doctors. You were in safe hands – or –um claws."

Connor frowned slightly. "What were those things that attacked us?"  
  
Spike shrugged. _What the hell_, he thought. _Boy knows something's afoot_. "Some kind of demon."

"We're looking into it," added Angel.

"Is that what I am? Some kind of demon?" Connor asked, indicating the fading wounds on his hands.

Angel opened his mouth to respond but Spike cut him off. "No, you're not."  
  
"Then...what am I?" Connor appealed first to Spike, then to Fred.  
  
"Best we can tell, you're a healthy, well-adjusted kid, with uh... enhanced abilities," Spike replied.  
  
"And you're a vampire. So...demons, vampires, doctors with claws... and I'm some sort of super-hero." Connor shrugged. "OK." He swung himself off the bed, clutching a sheet to his waist, and rummaged through the pile of bedclothes for his pants. He winced slightly as he bent down to retrieve his underpants from the floor.  
  
Angel laughed with relief. "You're taking this pretty well."

"What am I supposed to do, complain? I just don't know how I'm gonna explain it to my parents." He gripped his underpants in one hand and the sheet in the other. "You got family?" he asked, turning to Angel.  
  
"No – Not blood kin, at any rate, not unless you count Spike . . ." said Angel.  
  
Connor considered this for a second. "Right. You're a Vampire too. So, what? Did you? What's the word?"

"Sire. The word's sire. And the short version is - no, he didn't," said Spike. He glanced at Angel who gave him a grateful nod.

Maybe we're going to get away with this after all, Angel thought. _Maybe Connor doesn't need to know.  
_  
Connor interrupted Angel's thoughts, hopping on one leg to try to dress himself beneath the sheet. "Right. So you guys, like, fight crime and save the world here, that sort of stuff?"  
  
"Well, that's the idea," Angel, smiled at the contortions his son was performing in an attempt to retain some semblance of modesty in front of Fred.  
  
"Wow. Is everyone here a superhero? This place must be insane." Connor released the sheet. His boxer briefs were in place, inside-out and backwards, the label proudly proclaiming their origins from _Champion_.

Angel chuckled at the sight. "It's mostly para-legals, scientists and secretaries. Pretty boring, really," he said, repressing the laughter that threatened again.  
  
"Boring? You're finding this boring?" Gunn's voice cut through the mirth. "Haven't you heard a word I said to you? This . . ."

"Not now, Charles," pleaded Fred. "We should talk about this later."

Gunn stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. "Why not now? Do you know what's happening? What we're facing?" He got up from his chair and stood over her, glaring. "_You _don't know anything about this. You don't understand what's at stake. You _need_ to know. _Everyone_ needs to know. We can't fight it alone." Gunn turned to Angel "You said we were going to . . ."

"I know. And we will. Just not yet. Not until . . ." Angel searched for an excuse.

"Not until Wes gets here," Spike finished for him

"Wes _is_ here," said a quiet voice from the corridor.

Still holding his shotgun in one hand, Wesley shoved a figure through the door with the other. "_This_," he snapped icily, "has the answers to many of our questions." He threw the man further into the room, causing him to stumble against the desk and onto the floor.

The man turned a face sporting recent injuries to the others, who were gazing in astonishment at Wesley's dramatic entrance. "Well, well, well, just look at the great big happy extended family gathered in my honour," he smirked, slowly picking himself up. "Though, by the looks of things, not so much happy, but _definitely_ extended."

"Wes?" Angel looked at Wesley for an explanation.

"Allow me to introduce Ethan Rayne," said Wesley. "Known to us all as Eden Kane, the . . ."

"Trustee I met the other day," said Connor.

"Pop singer from the 60s. Purveyor of the sort of music I should have eaten him for inflicting on the public," added Spike, simultaneously. "I _knew_ the name didn't match _this_ face." He growled quietly and stood beside Ethan, their faces mere inches apart. "I know you from somewhere else, don't I?" he asked threateningly.

"Don't believe I've had the – _pleasure_," croaked Ethan, as Spike slipped into game face and grabbed him by the throat. "I'm sure I would have remembered if we had," he gasped. Spike hauled Ethan into the air and held his struggling form as he clutched at Spike's hands and fought for breath.

"Much as I hate to interrupt your _reunion_ with Ethan," Wesley said. "We need him in one piece if we're to get the information he will provide."

Spike reluctantly released Ethan onto the floor and dropped back into his human features. "Pity, I would have really enjoyed squeezing the information out before choking the life out of him."

Angel checked Connor's face to judge his reaction to what had just happened and was relieved to see curiosity rather than disgust or horror.

"So, is _Ethan_ a demon?" asked Connor, prodding the prone figure on the floor with his foot.

"Not a demon, but a worshipper of chaos. Someone who delights in causing trouble and walking away from the consequences," replied Wesley.

"Giles!" exclaimed Spike, clicking his fingers.

Angel swung his head towards the door. "Giles is here?" he asked.

"No, not _here_, you great lummox. Giles, and the Fyarl demon. That's where I heard all about Ethan Rayne."

"Ethan and Giles with a Fyarl demon?" Angel turned back to Spike. "I didn't know Giles – you know – consorted with demons. Was this in an alternative reality?"

Spike shook his head impatiently and began to gabble. "Giles _was _a Fyarl demon. Buffy almost killed him. I helped – not to kill him," he added hastily. "You see . . ."

Wesley cleared his throat. "Do you think this might wait for another time?" he asked, patiently. "Because we have more pressing matters to attend to. Ethan has a very interesting story to tell us. Don't you Ethan?" Wesley pointed his shotgun at Ethan's head. "Remember what we discussed at that disgustingly opulent apartment you were given for your part in this little plan? Don't think that just because there is a child present, or that there are human witnesses whose conscience might force them to report a killing to the police, that I won't go through with it. After all, I might end up in prison, but you'd still be very dead."

Fred watched in horror as Wesley hauled Ethan to his feet and struck him across the head with the butt of the shotgun. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a scream.

" Aargh," yelled Ethan, clutching his head. "There was no need for that. I said I'd tell you all I know. Not that I know very much, other than what I told you at the flat."

"Why am I inclined to believe that you were lying?" asked Wesley, grabbing Ethan by the front of his shirt and pulling him close. "Perhaps it's because your reputation doesn't include a _can-be-trusted_ recommendation. Now," he pushed Ethan into the desk chair and aimed the shotgun into his face, "start singing. And make sure I like the tune."

Angel placed a restraining hand on Wesley's shoulder. "Er, Wes, shouldn't we wait for Lorne to get here before he sings?"

"I wasn't really expecting him to burst into song." Wesley turned to Angel and considered for a moment. "But, now that you mention it, that's a very good idea. Where _is_ Lorne?"

"On his way in," replied Angel. "Nursing a hangover from Hell, by the sound of it. Vegas didn't agree with him. He should be here any minute."


	11. Skeletons in the Cupboard

Chapter 11 – Skeletons in the Cupboard.

The dialogue between Angel and Connor when Connor reveals that he knows his parents' true identity, is adapted from _Origins_.

* * *

"Why don't you put the gun down, Wes?" Angel said quietly. He dropped his hand from Wesley's shoulder and waved Spike closer. "Put Ethan somewhere secure and uncomfortable, will you? We'll hear what he has to say later."  
  
Spike grabbed Ethan by his collar and hauled him to his feet. "What? You mean like the very secure place you put that Pavayne bloke? You'll like him," he said turning to Ethan and grinning. He dragged the mage towards the door. "You two have a lot in common."  
  
"Spike!" Angel warned. "We _need_ him. Just lock him in the closet in the mailroom. There's nothing there of any help to him. Trust me," he added in response to Spike's questioning look, "I know."  
  
As Spike left, Angel turned and faced the others. "Let's go upstairs. We've a lot to go over." He lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder at his son. "Not here. Connor doesn't need to be in on any of this,"  
  
"I don't?" asked Connor. "Why not? I thought this was all about me? I'm entitled to be in on it." He'd finished dressing and,, limping slightly, had edged gingerly from the sofa to stand beside Angel.  
  
Angel looked at him and frowned. "_Some_ of it is about you. What I want to talk about concerns _them_. And you need to stay here and rest." He turned to Fred. "Isn't it time for more meds?"  
  
Fred uncurled herself and got out of the her chair, reluctant to leave the corner in which she'd chosen to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. "The doctor gave me some antibiotics. He should have those. The pain killers are _as and when required_," She opened the fridge and peered inside. "There's only beer and blood in here. Connor needs something to take the pills with."  
  
"Beer's fine," said Connor .  
  
"Oh no it's not!" Angel had a quick look around. "There's water _here_." He poured some into a tumbler from a jug that Spike had left beside the bed, and handed it to Connor.  
  
Fred held out her hand. "Take these, and get back into bed. You need to get some more sleep."  
  
Connor looked from Fred's hand to Angel and back again to Fred, his face creased in a frown. " Why are you treating me like a child? I get enough of the _you need more sleep routine_ at home, from Mom."  
  
Fred closed her fist and dropped her hand. "Sorry, so sorry," she mumbled. "It's just . . . " She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and straightened her back. "Take the antibiotic capsules. _Now_! If you're worried about your street-cred with the rest of the testosterone gang here, leave the pain killers."  
  
Connor reached out and took the capsules from her hand. He looked at her with new-found respect in his eyes. "Yes Ma'am." He swallowed the capsules with one gulp of water. "You're nothing _like_ Mom. You're cool," he said, eyeing her appreciatively.  
  
Angel stepped in between Connor and Fred. "Are you all right, Fred.You seem a little . . ."  
  
"Fine," she snapped, coldly. "I'm - fine. I just need a little time to adjust to. . . " She searched the faces in the room, frantically. "Does everyone else remember? Am I the only one who . . . "  
  
"The only one who what?" asked Gunn. "The only one who still thinks we're all here because we can do some good working from inside this place? Or the only one who didn't trade something important for their position?"  
  
"Trade? What do you mean, trade?" asked Fred, shakily. "We got our positions here because we're good at what we do. Wesley?" she appealed to the ex-Watcher, "that's right, isn't it?"  
  
Wesley sighed and put the shotgun on the desk. He looked at the ceiling for inspiration and, finding none, took hold of Fred's hands and led her back to her chair. "Fred," he said gently. "We all traded something for our places here," he paused, looking to the others for confirmation of his next words, "except for you. You took the job believing you could make a difference. Believing you could go on fighting the forces of evil even better with all the resources Wolfram and Hart has to offer. There was never anything to be gained for you personally. For the rest of us," he glanced at Angel; "there was something important to be gained that would have been lost to us if we'd refused the offer."  
  
"You all have your memories back. Why don't I? Why am I the only one who doesn't remember?" She put a hand to her mouth to cover her trembling lip.  
  
Angel joined Wesley at Fred's side and took her hands in his. "You don't remember because, apart from Connor, you're the only truly innocent one here," he said, softly.  
  
"Guess that means I'm not as innocent as you think," Connor interrupted. "I _know_ you're my father."  
  
Angel's eyes widened and he swung round to face his son. "You got your memories back?" He looked away from Connor, and stared at the floor, unable to meet his eyes.  
  
"Yeah, after the attack, when I realised Spike was a vampire, they started to flash in piece by piece. They're mixed in there with the new ones. Kind of like, uh... a bad dream I had, I guess, a very strange and violent, at times, inappropriately erotic...dream." Connor dropped his head and studied the same spot on the carpet that seemed to have captivated Angel.  
  
"Then you probably do have a lot of questions."  
  
"Told ya, I have a whole bunch of them. But not about . . . " Connor glanced at his father. "No. I don't want to make a thing about . . . I get what you did. You know... I'm grateful. That's as far as I want to take it...OK?" He looked into Angel's eyes and gave him a small smile.

"OK?" Angel breathed a sigh of relief. It was that simple. He'd spent weeks agonising about how he was going to tell Connor, and it all boiled down to an _OK_.  
  
"But I do want to know about all _this_." Connor waved his hands in the direction of the others. "And about why I'm here at Wolfram and Hart."  
  
"You shouldn't be," said Gunn. "Huh?"  
  
"You should be – I don't know, somewhere else, somewhere safe, not heading for a law-court where they're out for your blood."  
  
"Or your soul," added Wesley.  
  
"I . . . I don't understand." Connor shook his head slowly.  
  
"None of us do," replied Angel. "I suppose I'd better fill you in on what we've got."  
  
Connor nodded. "It'd be a start."  
  
"We've got leads to something from your personal files here, though which files we should look at I'm not too sure," Angel said grimacing. "There seems to be two different sets, leading in different directions and . . ."  
  
"Bits pieced together from the scholarship papers," interrupted Wesley. "But we won't understand how it all fits together unless we get some information out of Ethan."  
  
"I don't understand," said Fred. "How all _what_ fits together?" Fred lifted her head and smiled nervously over Angel's head. "Maybe Lorne could help. Lorne, you could read Connor, couldn't you?"  
  
Lorne shook his head, steadied himself on the doorframe and took another gulp from the glass he was carrying. "Oh, I don't think that would be such a good idea, Cupcake. I'm a little burned. Usually I love it. You know, folk sing, I read their futures, their auras, I see into their souls ... but I've had a little too much Copa Cabana action. I think my horns short-circuited during the all-night party that lasted all week."  
  
Connor swung his head to where Fred had directed her attention. "Wow! Lorne! What're you doing here?"  
  
"Been asking myself that a lot, recently, buckaroo." Lorne staggered through the door clutching an almost-empty bottle to his chest in one hand and a half-full glass in the other. He waved the glass in Angel's direction and giggled. "Angel, I've still got a head full of kidnappings, demon possession, not to mention rains of fire. I was thinking of retiring from the whole Wolfram and Hart gig, going for a quiet life with the C-list somewhere in the Arctic. Did I mention the rains of fire?" he hiccuped. "I'm not sure I could even . . ."  
  
Angel put a comforting arm over Lorne's shoulder and gently pulled him to one side "Please, Lorne. Do this one last thing for me."  
  
"I wish I could," Lorne groaned. He looked at the liquid in his glass. "What do you call a Sea Breeze when there weren't any cranberries or grapefruit?" He took another swig. "Neat vodka," he laughed. "So what do you call it when you couldn't find any vodka either?"  
  
"Wes's best Lavagulin?" Spike offered. He'd been on his way back, just yards behind Lorne and watched Lorne raid Wesley's office. "Well, now the Host's here, suppose it's time for the party. You want me to retrieve our friend from the closet now? Waste of time that was," he grumbled. "Although," he pursed his lips, "on second thoughts, not too sure he's in a ShowTime kinda mood. Think I might have accidentally damaged the vocal chords a little – "_What_?" he raised an eyebrow as Wesley fixed him with an angry glare. "Keep your powder dry, Wyatt. He can still talk. Just sayin' he's not in the mood for a Karaoke. He's – erm – _resting_."  
  
Angel sighed. "All right, Spike. Leave Ethan where he is for now." He turned to Lorne with concern. "Why can't you read Connor?  
  
Lorne collapsed into the nearest chair and poured another drink into his glass.  
  
"No more of that!" Angel knocked the glass out of Lorne's grip with one hand and snatched the bottle from him with the other. "I need you." He stopped and turned to the others. "I need all of you firing on all cylinders."  
  
Lorne looked up at Angel through swollen eyelids. "You don't know what it's been like," he whimpered. "Ever since Spike mentioned Connor's name . . . ever since I got my memory back . . . They won't stop. The visions just keep coming, Angel. And they're driving me insane."  
  
Angel wiped his hand across his mouth and gathered his thoughts. "Listen to me," he said. "There are two realities, or two time-lines . . . I'm not too sure about any of this . ., but the way I understand it, if you will hear Connor sing, if you can read his destiny, we'll know which is the reality we're meant to be in. Only you can do this, Lorne," he added at Lorne's disbelieving look. "– You _can_."  
  
----------  
  
Angel turned the lights down, leaving just one lamp to light the lyrics Connor had downloaded from the Internet. Connor glanced anxiously at his audience.  
  
"Erm – I haven't had much experience at this," he said bashfully.  
  
"Don't worry, kid," said Spike. "There's no way you're going to be as bad at it as your Pa. Go for it."  
  
Connor held the lyric sheet at arm's length and began to sing.  
  
#  
  
_I,  
  
I will be king  
And you,  
  
You will be queen  
Though nothing will drive them away  
We can beat them,  
  
Just for one day  
We can be Heroes,  
  
Just for one day  
  
Though nothing, will keep us together  
We could steal time,  
Just for one day  
We can be Heroes, forever and ever  
What d'you say? #  
_  
Fred stirred uneasily in her chair. "Handsome man, save me from the monsters," she murmured.  
  
Wesley watched her with concern, his own thoughts turning to Lilah.  
  
Lorne sat, motionless, in the desk chair, staring out of the window and frowning.  
  
Spike jumped to his feet and clapped Connor on the shoulder. "Good choice, man. Not the Bowie version, from what I just heard. Had more grit in it."  
  
"Bowie? Who's that?" asked Connor, grinning. "Naw, got a bootlegged copy of the Pogues' cover."  
  
Spike beamed. "Boy has taste. Same with the footy team."  
  
"Pogues?" asked Angel. "Are they an Irish band?"  
  
"Guess some of the background must've worn off then," said Spike.  
  
Angel smiled at Connor proudly.  
  
"Well, _doh_. My parents' surname is Riley. How much more Irish can that . . ." Connor's voice trailed off as he realised what he'd just said. He looked at Angel's crestfallen face. "Oh, God, I didn't mean . . .I just . . . " He crumpled the lyrics sheet in his hand and let it drop to the floor. "This is just a little confusing, you know."  
  
"More than a little," agreed Lorne. He'd turned the desk chair away from Connor so that he couldn't see him while he sang and was now slumped forward clutching his head. "Angel, I need another drink. Do you think I could . . .?"  
  
"No! No more drinks." Angel swung Lorne in his chair so that he was facing Connor once more. "Tell me what you saw. What's his destiny?"  
  
Lorne lowered his hands and looked up into Angel's concerned face. His nose was bleeding, his eyes bloodshot and puffed. He turned his gaze to Connor. "Which one, Bubba? The one where he's fighting alongside you against the Powers that Be, defending his father? Or the one where he's fighting alone, against evil lawyers, defending the helpless? Either way, it doesn't look too good for _any_ of us. 


	12. Pasts, presents and futures

**Chapter 12 – Pasts, presents and futures**

* * *

For an instant nobody moved, the stillness in the room underlined by the stunned silence that greeted Lorne's words. Fred was the first to shake herself out of the frozen moment and rush to his side. She knelt beside him and wiped his face with a tissue. 

"Oh my God, Lorne. What's happened to you?"

"Same as happened last time, Honeybunch. Don't fuss. It'll pass in a day or so. At least, the nosebleeds and scary eyes will. Can't say the same for the migraine." Lorne patted her hand in thanks and turned to Angel. "Does this make things any clearer? Because I don't think I'm up for any encores."

"This is all wrong. You don't get like this after a reading." Angel ignored the question and his brow creased with concern. He indicated Lorne' face. "Does this look like anything familiar to you guys?"

Wesley spoke for the first time since Lorne had entered the room. "Cordelia's visions."

"Factor in a _writ large_ in there," agreed Gunn.

"Keep me in the loop, why don't you?" complained Spike. "Cordelia had visions?"

"You're missing the point, guys. Cordy's gone. How come Lorne is reacting this way? " Angel asked before turning back to Lorne "Are you seeing anything at other times? Any times when you're not doing a reading?"

"Angelcakes, you didn't listen to me. I told you these things started back at that meeting. The one where Spike first mentioned Connor. That was about the time that . . . "

"About the time that Cordy died," whispered Fred.

Angel moved to Spike's desk and ran his fingers across the files that Gunn and Wesley had brought to the meeting. He turned slowly and faced the others.

"It's about time everyone was brought up to speed, but first, we should do something for Lorne. Fred, how about giving him some of those pain killers Connor's so keen not to take?"

Fred took Lorne's hands away from his eyes and held them gently in her own. "Is the pain really bad?" she asked softly.

Lorne closed his eyes against the light and nodded.

"These pain killers contain morphine. You'll sleep for hours if I give you any."

"Well, he's in no state to read our meddlesome mage," said Spike. "I vote we let the Green Man get in a few zeds. Gives us the opportunity to extract the info out of Ethan the old fashioned way. What d'ya say, Charlie Boy? You up for a spot of action?"

Spike indicated the door with a jerk of his head and swiftly crossed the room to make his exit. Angel stepped into his path and blocked the way.

"I need Gunn here for a while. He has things to tell the others. And, while I don't have any objections to you working Ethan over, I'd like you to be here to hear what Gunn and Wes have uncovered."

Spike raised his eyebrows in surprise. "No objections to a spot of violence on a human eh?"

"He forfeited the right to any consideration as a human when he sided with evil – and put my family in jeopardy," snarled Angel. He stepped to one side and addressed the others again. "That doesn't just mean Connor – or Spike," he added, glancing sideways at the younger vampire. "It means all of you. Ethan's actions have somehow created two different time lines. Gunn found something . . . " Angel waved at the files on the desk. "The floor's yours, Gunn. Fill them in. I'll make us all some coffee."

Fred looked up in alarm. "Two different time lines? How? I mean, it's always been discussed as a possibility every time a choice is made. That would mean an infinite number of different universes - well strictly speaking it's more to do with black holes than with individual choices, but then Hawking's recent paper on dark matter, where he concedes his earlier work may have been flawed . . . And I'm babbling again, aren't I?" She looked from one concerned face to another. "It's OK, I'm still just a little confused. Must be the gaps in my memories. Do you think if I take some of these I'll have them back when I wake up?" she asked Lorne as she handed him some pills.

Lorne smiled weakly at her. "It's not worth the risk, sweetness. Vulnerable people plus drug cocktails. Not a pretty result."

"Besides, we need your brain power intact to help solve the conundrum," added Gunn. He took up a folder from the desk, opened it, then closed it and put down again. "Bottom line. There are two different files on Connor here at Wolfram and Hart. They're identical up until the moment whatever happened between Spike and that demon in the bar."

Connor looked at his father, opened his mouth to speak and closed it again as Angel raised a finger to his lips.

"From that moment, the files diverge. The one relating to this . . . _time-line_, for the want of a better word, is full of detail. The other is full too, but it's locked to us – what it's full of is just blank paper." Gunn looked across to where Wesley sat watching Fred as she helped Lorne settle more comfortably on the sofa bed Connor had so recently vacated. "Wes was looking into the details of the scholarship but I discovered that _it_ didn't exist before Spike became corporeal again."

Spike shifted from his perch on the edge of the desk. "Time going wonky? Just when I came back with all systems functioning so to speak? Does that explain why I get the feeling I should never have been brought back in the first place?"

"It's not _you_ being here that caused the problem," said Angel. "I can't believe I just said that," he added with a wry grin in response to Spike's look of disbelief. "It's what Ethan did when he started acting for Jenoff and set up the Rayne Foundation, that seems to have set things in motion. What did you unearth, Wes?"

Wesley slowly got to his feet and turned to face the window, his back to the others to prevent them seeing anything on his face that would betray the fact that he was about to withhold information from them. "The Rayne Foundation was set up for the sole purpose of bringing Connor into Wolfram and Hart. The profile drawn up for the recipient of the scholarship ensured that only Connor would be acceptable. The terms of the scholarship were made so attractive that Connor would be unable to resist the conditions it offered. That, of itself gave me cause to be suspicious but it was the _name_ of the Foundation that led me to dig a little deeper. I'd heard about Ethan from my time as a Watcher in Sunnydale and my contact with Rupert Giles. I gave Giles a ring . . . " Wesley shot a glance over his shoulder at Angel. "I know your relationship is somewhat strained at the moment, but we'd been in contact earlier, when Spike first appeared out of the amulet." Wesley turned back to the window again. "Giles filled me in on Ethan's background and . . . " Wesley paused, unsure how to proceed with the next part of his exposition without revealing the full prophecy. " And as I was working with some of the scripts on demons, a message appeared on my computer screen."

"A message?" asked Angel. "You mean an email?"

"No, not an email. The screen went black and the message appeared on it, out of nowhere."

"Let me guess," said Spike. "It wasn't a reminder to put out the rubbish tomorrow."

"More of a reminder that tomorrow means very different things in different time lines," replied Wesley. "It urged me to look more closely at demons known as The Old Ones."

Fred left Lorne who was now sleeping peacefully and moved to stand beside Wesley. "Do you know where this message came from?"

"No," replied Wesley glumly, "I was more concerned with finding Ethan. I didn't think to try to trace its origin."

Angel handed both of them a mug of coffee. "Do you think you and Wes might be able to track down the messenger somehow? Can you . . . What's the word? Hack your way through?"

"I think so," said Fred. "Knox showed me a way into files I didn't even know existed. It'll be good to focus on something I can get to grips with." She put her untouched coffee on the desk and touched Angel's arm. "What about Connor?"

Angel looked at his son. "Got even more questions now, huh?"

"Master of the understatement, your Pa," Spike explained, throwing an arm over Connor's shoulder. "How's about it Unc. Want to join me and Gunn to find out some of the answers in the mailroom closet?"

"_Not_ a good idea, Spike," said Angel, alarmed by Spike's invitation

"What? You think he's too delicate to witness that? Haven't you been listening to what he's been through?"

"Angel's right," said Connor.

"You wimping out as well? It's not as if you'd be in any danger. Makes a bloke ashamed to call you kin," Spike snorted.

"It's not that I can't take it. It's just . . . that's not part of who I am now." Connor paused, turning Spike's words over in his head. "Wimp?" he said indignantly. "If I'm your Uncle how about showing a little respect for your ancestors?"

Spike chuckled. "You _are_ a chip off the old block. The Old Man's always telling me that."

Angel gave Connor a lopsided grin. "Thanks. Gunn, would you and Spike go and see what you can get out of Ethan without killing him? And Fred, go with Wes and see what you can do about this mysterious messenger. I'll stay here and keep an eye on Lorne and spend a little quality time with Connor, if that's OK with you?" he asked smiling.

* * *

Gunn unlocked the closet and pushed the door open.

"You can come out now," he called. "Game's over."

Ethan peered cautiously round the door. "Oh and here I was having so much fun. No one found me in here. What do we play next?"

Spike grabbed him by the collar and yanked him into the mailroom. "Story time, mate. Now . . . " he kicked Ethan into the middle of the room. "Sit!" he ordered, pointing to a chair. "Are we sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin. Once upon a time there was a nasty little weasel called Ethan Rayne, who grew tired of playing with the wee folk and thought he'd move into the big time. "

Spike stepped back and tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as he did so. "You want to add the next part? Or do I need to draw some pictures in blood for you first? Your call."

"I just want to begin by saying that none of this was my idea," Ethan said, turning to face Gunn. "You should know. You deal with them. You know just how unreasonable they can be once you sign up for the perks."

Spike frowned. "What's he on about?"

"Nothing," replied Gunn. "Quit stalling, Ethan, or I'll let Spike do what he's aching to do to you. Hit him, Spike, just to give him a taster."

"Thought you'd never ask." Spike aimed a single blow at Ethan's head, taking care to pull his punch to ensure he remained conscious.

"Aaaargh!" screamed Ethan. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," snarled Spike. "But let's start with your involvement with Jenoff."

"It wasn't Jenoff who hired me. It was Eve. She asked me to head up the Foundation to make sure some kid came into the firm. They told me it was a way of keeping Angel and his team tied into the firm."

"What was in it for you?" asked Gunn, "apart from a pile of cash and comfy living quarters."

"It's my vocation. I'm duty bound to make the lives of hypocritical do-gooders a little more uncomfortable, wherever I can."

"Stop side-tracking," said Spike, hitting him again. "Or _I'll_ be duty bound to hit you again, only harder."

Ethan rubbed his chin. "Hey! You nearly broke my jaw. I need that to talk. And I'm not side-tracking You need to hear the reasons why I did what I did . . ."

"What we _need_ is to know what you did and who you did it for. And what _you_ need is to tell us the truth or I'll let Spike work off some of the aggression he's already feeling towards you," said Gunn.

"If I tell you, without explaining, how can I be sure he won't kill me afterwards?"

"Because I'm one of those hypocritical do-gooders you've got a down on," growled Spike. "My conscience wouldn't let me kill a human, even a snivelling excuse of one like you. But . . ." Spike smirked menacingly, "I can't vouch for my Grandsire on that one any more. He's traded his white hat for a grey one by the sound of things."

Ethan blanched and began to sweat. He looked round the room for a possible means of escape. There were no windows and only one door, and Spike stood between him and that exit. He swallowed and appealed to Gunn. "Look, we're both men of reason. Can't you give me something to work with? Some guarantee that when . . . _if_ I tell you what you want to know, that I won't become a victim to the vampire's tendency to solve problems through violence?"

"Lucky for you we work as a team," replied Gunn. "If it comes down to a vote, Angel 'd be outnumbered on any move to snuff you out. We'd probably just have you shipped off somewhere where you could do the least harm."

Ethan considered this for a moment and wiped the sweat from his eyes. "Where should . . . where do you want me to start?" he stammered.

"How about the time Jennoff entered the equation?"

"Jenoff was already a client when Angel took over as CEO. The original plan was that Connor would enter the firm through the Foundation scholarship to make sure Angel wouldn't renege on the contract. Jenoff approached me because he wanted revenge on Angel for something, I'm not too sure of the details. Well, to be honest, I'm not interested in the details."

"Get on with it," growled Spike. "We haven't got all night."

"All right, put your bumps away. It's ironic, really, _you_ were the one who provided the opportunity for Jenoff to exact his revenge."

Spike rumbled threateningly and took a pace forward. Gunn placed a restraining hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

"I knew exactly when the envelope containing the amulet would arrive and I inserted the clause about the Special Client into Angel's contract to coincide with the precise moment your ghostly self materialised."

Gunn frowned. "You inserted the clause? How? It looks like the original contract to me. Angel's signature is on it."

"Anything's possible with magic," replied Ethan. "Without magic I couldn't have carried out the final part of the plan. It was when Spike became corporeal that I got him and the right demon together."

"That night in the bar," said Spike softly. "I remember . . . "

* * *

"Tell me again why 're we going to fight?" asked Spike groggily.

"For the hell of it." The demon was suddenly sober. "Can't you feel it, the blood singing in your veins?"

Spike pushed his chair back and swayed up onto his feet. "Can't say as I do. Not yet at any rate. Been out of ciruc . . . circlul . . . cirlcl … out of it for a while. Anywho, got no quarr'l with you. 'cept you could prob'ly bore for England. And your taste in footy teams is woeful – Spurs!" he snorted derisively.

The demon watched closely as the drunken vampire clutched the edge of the table for support; knocking some of the many glasses he'd acquired in the past two hours onto the floor. _Time to step it up a gear_, he decided.

"I heard you'd gone all soft. Time was you didn't need a reason for a good scrap. Heard you'd let some bint castrate you."

"Could if I wanted!" Spike exclaimed. "'snot like I can't any more. Could knock you 'to the middle of next week, one hand behind – thingy - back." Spike's head snapped up. "Bint!" he roared. "_You_ don't get to call her that, you, you . . !"

Spike launched himself across the table at the demon and crashed into an empty chair. He lay, stunned for a moment, then got to his feet shaking broken glass and chair debris debris from his hair. He swung round unsteadily, morphing back into his human features as he did so.

"What? Where'd he go?" he asked searching the room with bloodshot eyes.

The demon beckoned him from a barstool next to the exit. "Missed! You really _are_ off your game aren't you?" he taunted.

Spike crossed the distance between them in a single leap, drawing his fist back as he did so and aiming it at the demon's head.

"Ow! Hey! What d'you do that for?"

A man Spike had never seen before let fly with a series of blows that knocked him to the floor. As he watched from within a drink-induced haze, the room erupted into the kind of bar brawl usually reserved for old black and white cowboy movies on late night cable TV.

Spike pulled himself back to as close to an upright position as he could manage and searched the room again for the cause of the mayhem.

"Coo – eee," called a voice from behind him. "Looking for me?"

Spike glared over his shoulder and the demon responded by blowing him a kiss. Spike kicked himself into the air and spun sideways, striking his tormentor with his foot as he did so. As he landed back on two feet, a broken bottle struck him on the back of the head, and he passed out.

The bar lights burned the back of Spike's eyelids as he struggled back towards consciousness. He squinted and covered his eyes against the glare, groaning softly and rubbing the back of his head where the bottle had struck.

"Where is he? I'm gonna kill him when I . . ."

"You already did that," a voice whispered into his ear. "I'd hi-tail it out of here before the family arrives if I were you, vamp. Things are about to get ugly."

Spike looked up into the barman's face. "What? Killed? I didn't . . ."

The barman pointed at the demon's body lying under the table beside where he'd fallen. Spike crawled forward.

"Neck's broken," he murmured. "I don't remember breaking his neck." He continued rubbing the back of his head and staggered to his feet.

The barman pushed a sheet of paper into Spike's hands. "Give this to your Boss," he said.

"What is it?" asked Spike trying, unsuccessfully, to focus on the columns of small print.

"The bill for the damage."

The bar was wrecked; tables were overturned, the floor was covered in broken glass and awash with spilled alcohol. Several human customers lay bruised and unconscious amid the debris, while others wandered around dazed. A slight, dark-haired man slipped, unnoticed, through the shadows and out of the door.

"It was you," said Spike. "You were the demon who started the fight. How'd you do it?"

"A simple glamour was all that was needed," replied Ethan. "One of my better works, I must admit, although I could never master the American accent."

"But, how did you arrange for Jenoff's son to be there at precisely the right moment?" asked Gunn.

"You _are_ losing the perks aren't you?" Ethan sneered. "Haven't you worked it out, either of you?"

Gunn and Spike stared at him blankly.

"Oh give me the challenge of Ripper any day, I'm dealing with cretins here."

Spike moved closer and pushed his face within inches of Ethan's, changing into vamp face as he did so. "Well this cretin has had enough of your mind games for one night. Just tell us what you did."

"I didn't do anything," whimpered Ethan. "Honestly. Except for playing the part of the demon, I had nothing to do with his killing. He was already dead when I followed you to the bar. The plan was flawless, right down to your MO on the body. All I had to do was provoke you into a fight and place the body in the most incriminating spot during the height of the melee. "

"And then stand back and enjoy the consequences of your little set up?"

"Well, that was the _one_ flaw. I never intended to fall into your hands. It's a weakness of mine. I always stick around too long to gloat."

"Don't know about you, Chuck," growled Spike, "but this little trip down memory lane has made me peckish. Are you sure I can't just have a little snack here before we report back to the gang?"

"Sorry, against the Boss Man's orders," said Gunn. "Besides, you don't want to spoil your appetite on something as unpalatable as this snake do you? We'll just lock him up here for the time being. I'm sure Wes will come up with a more suitable long-term destination for him . . . eventually."

Spike grabbed Ethan by both arms and propelled him towards the closet.

"_Eventually_?" yelled Ethan. "You can't just leave me here. You have no right to do that. I'm human."

Spike hurled him through the door and slammed it shut. "Should've thought about that before you signed on with the Senior Partners, mate," he shouted over Ethan's screams of protest.


	13. Breakfast with the Family

**Chapter 13: Breakfast with the Family.**

**

* * *

**

Angel switched on the coffee machine and turned towards Connor, his hands busy cracking eggs and beating them in a bowl. He As he stopped beating and reached for the pepper mill, his gaze lingered on the sleeping form of his son. Connor lay on his back on the second sofa in Spike's office, having given his place in the made-up bed to Lorne. His face was peaceful, a slight smile playing on the corner of his mouth, as though sharing a joke with an unseen other.

Angel reflected on Connor's reaction to regaining his memories wondered what the price was would be for having given him such a well-balanced personality. _Whatever it is, it'll be worth it._ _Perhaps this is what he would have been like if Holtz hadn't got his hands on him_. Angel gave the pepper mill a final twirl and resumed beating the eggs. As he turned back to the microwave, his eyes caught a slight movement from the armchair upon which Spike had spent the night.

Spike sat with his legs sprawled over the arm of the chair, his head thrown back against the headrest., It tossing it from side to side and jerked occasionally as he murmured softly to himself. Angel strained to catch the coherent words from unconnected phrases, interspersed with groans, over the sound of the whisk on the bowl.; unconnected phrases interspersed with groans.

"Gotta do it . . . no, you don't, but thanks for saying it . . . better go, lamb . . . wanna see how it ends."

Angel stopped beating and sighed deeply._ And I wonder what_ **_you _**_would have been like if **I'd** never got my hands on you_.

The toaster popped up with a loud clatter and Angel flinched as two slightly charred pieces of toast launched themselves skywards. Angel's hands shot out in automatic response to their downward trajectory and he caught both pieces as they descended, throwing them onto the nearest plate and blowing on his fingers to relieve them.

Spike stirred in his chair and opened one eye. "When did you get to be so domesticated? Coffee last night, breakfast this morning . . . if my nose doesn't deceive," he grinned, sniggering at the sight of Angel nursing his fingers under his armpits.

"Trust you to have the toaster set to max, Spike. Everything you do is so . . . _loud_."

"Told you, never do things by halves. Waste of effort. 'sides, I like burnt toast. It has that yummy charcoaly flavour."

"No you don't," said Angel crossly. "You just like the mess you make scraping the burnt bits off." Angel turned on the tap and held his fingers under the soothing stream of cold water.

"My, my, tetchy this morning, aren't we? Get out of bed the wrong side again? Sorry, forgot," Spike added hearing Angel's warning growl. "There isn't ever a right side for you is there, Mr Grouchy?" He threw his legs off the arm of the chair and pulled himself out of the depths of the leather upholstery. Stretching his arms over his head, he yawned loudly. "Not the most comfortable sleeping arrangements," he grumbled.

Angel turned off the tap and glared at him. "Why do you do that? You know you don't need to."

"What? Sleep? 'course I do," replied Spike. He rumpled his hair in an attempt to massage the back of his head and neck. "Not used to doing it in an almost upright position though."

"Not that. Why did you yawn just now? And breathing, you don't need to do that either but you do. It's annoying."

"Do I?" asked Spike, feeling his chest. "I'm not doing it now am I?"

"You breathe while you sleep," said Angel. "I've seen you."

Spike raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide. "Been watching me sleep now? Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

He walked towards the work surface and stepped close to Angel, looking up into his eyes from under his lashes. Angel took a step backwards and reached hastily for the bowl, opening the microwave door as he did so.

Before he could place the bowl inside, Spike checked the contents and gave him a small smile. "Mmmm, scrambled eggs, toast and coffee. We got any marmalade, Hon?" he asked, opening the fridge door and rummaging through the contents.

Angel glared at him. "This isn't for you. You don't need to eat. Just like you don't need to yawn, or breathe in your sleep." He punched the time and heat setting into the controls and pressed the start button.

"Then why did Wes set me up with all this stuff when he had the office kitted out – which by the way is _my_ office, in case you'd forgotten." Spike slammed the fridge door shut and rifled through the cutlery drawer for a knife. He cut liberal chunks off the slab of butter he'd found in the fridge and started applying it to a piece of toast.

"Shhhh. Stop making so much noise," whispered Angel. "You'll wake the others."

Spike stopped his attack on the toast and looked at his grandsire. "Isn't that the whole point of making breakfast? For people who are awake? Not that you're a whiz in the kitchen," he went on before Angel had the chance to respond. "This butter's rock hard and the toast has gone cold. Put some more on. I like my butter melted in, not mortared on."

Angel glared at him and took two more slices of bread from the wrapper. "It's not like I'm used to working with such inferior facilities," he whined. "I can't cater for so many in this poky space, I had a full kitchen to work with back at the Hyperion."

Spike opened the microwave door just as it finished its final ping. "When you've done griping about my office, you gonna give this a stir before it goes all rubbery?" he asked, smirking slightly.

Angel snatched the bowl out of his hands and began beating the eggs vigorously. "When are you ever gonna quit riling me?" he snarled.

"Oh, let's see . . . never," grinned Spike. "And while we're on the subject of riling, when're you ever gonna stop invading my private stuff? It's always the same with you, innit? I get something of my own and you have to muscle in and take over." Spike perched himself on one of the stools in front of the breakfast bar and fixed Angel with a steely, ice-blue stare.

Angel turned his back on him and put the eggs back in the microwave and reset the timer. "I thought we were done with all that," he said quietly.

"No – _you_ were done with it. I'm still on the receiving end of it – again. This is my room. You're using my stuff without so much as a by-your-leave, like you owned it."

"I thought you knew where you stood now. No one forced you to stay. You chose to." Angel didn't trust himself to turn and face Spike while he fought down the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. _Ungrateful pup_, he thought bitterly.

"I did. And I am – choosing to stay," Spike admitted Spike. "But I don't remember asking anyone over for a slumber party. You're not exactly my first choice in bedmates you know. Come to think of it ,it, you wouldn't even feature on the list, especially not after that whole watching me sleep thing," he grimaced.

"Is that so?" Angel snarled. "And just who would make the shortlist? Drusilla? Buffy?" Angel swung round and caught sight of the huge grin on Spike's face. "So, we're back to Buffy again?" Angel began buttering the fresh toast, concentrating on whirling the softening butter into little swirls and flattening them with the back of the knife, then cutting ridges into the toast and watching the creamy liquid disappear into the gaps made by the blade. "You _know_ you're wasting your time. _I'm_ the one who's waiting for her to finish baking. _I_ get to eat warm cookies – _me_, not you. Even if you are - _in her heart _– whatever that means."

Spike guffawed. "God, you are so easy, you know that? I thought it'd take longer this time."

Angel looked up from his endeavours with the toast to see Spike and Connor shaking with laughter and giving one another a high five.

"We had a bet last night, 'bout how long it'd take to get you mad," explained Spike through snorts of laughter. He handed Connor a ten dollar note.

Angel's face dissolved into a sheepish, lopsided grin. "Heh," he laughed uneasily. "I guess Connor won?"

"Your face. You should see your face," giggled Connor. He pocketted the note and turned to Spike. "Is he always like this?"

"What? You mean like he's just eaten something he's having trouble getting down? More or less." Spike snorted with laughter again. "I think when they gave him his soul, they removed every funny bone in his body. I don't remember him laughing much after that. Not like he used to in the old days. You ever seen him have any fun?"

"Not so much. I remember there was a lot of scowling involved."

"And brooding. Don't forget the brooding," chuckled Spike wiping his eyes. Then, noticing Angel's crestfallen face, he added, "Aw, c'mon Big Guy. Don't take it to heart. It's not your fault. Loosen up a bit. Maybe your other-timely self is enjoying himself right now with some lovely little . . ."

"There is no other-timely self," said a voice from an armchair behind them. Gunn raised himself stiffly to his feet and shook each leg in turn. "Not the most comfortable night I've had since we came here," he added.

"No other self?" asked Angel anxiously. "Is this speculation or can you back it up?"

Gunn crossed the room to the breakfast bar and poured himself a mug of coffee. "I'd rather wait 'til everyone's here – and awake," he said, glancing at Lorne's still sleeping form. "before I explain. I think we're going to need both Wes and Fred to pull everything together to make sense of it."

Angel looked up at him in alarm. "Why? What's wrong with you?"

Gunn sank onto one of the stools and put his head between his hands. "I've lost it, Angel. All of it. The legal knowledge, the deductive reasoning. It's all gone and there's no way I can get it back. Without it . . . I'm nothing."

"Bollocks!" cried Spike. "You're still you, still Charles Gunn."

"What do _you_ know?" asked Gunn wearily.

Spike took Gunn by the shoulders and shook him. "You're asking that of someone who's been through more changes than Angel gets through jars of hair gel? Not to mention being fried crispier than this here burnt piece of toast. You're talking to an expert, Charlie Boy."

Gunn looked up at him and opened his mouth to protest, but before he had a chance to say anything, Spike crouched down on his haunches and looked directly into his eyes. "Stuff in your head? Stuff out of your head? Bin there, done that, got the sodding T-shirt and chip-inna-bottle souvenir. It's not what's in your brain that makes you _you_, Chuck, it's what's in _here_." He touched Gunn's chest. "And _here_." He touched his stomach. "In your heart and in your guts. It's what flows in your veins, keeping you fighting, making you do what you know is right. _That's_ what makes you . . ."

"One of us," finished Angel.

Spike looked round. As he'd been speaking, a silence had descended in the room and Angel and Connor had moved closer. Spike stood up and flexed his knees waiting for the criticism from Angel that never came.

Angel's eyes were wide with surprise, his face softened by a look of admiration. "I always said you talked too much. But sometimes, what you say is actually worth listening to," he said softly.

"That was just like one of Dad's pep talks," said Connor grinning broadly. He turned to Angel. "I thought _you_ were the serious one. Are you sure he doesn't have any of your genes tucked away in there somewhere?"

Spike snorted. "As if! I am _nothing_ like Mr Broody Pants. Just because a bloke picks up some pointers from hanging around the good guys for a few years, doesn't mean he's signed up for . . ."

Spike's sentence was cut short by the sound of the office door opening, and Connor never did get find out which particular organisation Spike wasn't going to apply for membership of. The door swung back revealing a grim faced Wesley clutching a slim wallet folder in one hand and balancing a cardboard Starbucks' cup between his chin and the top of the file.

"Ah, fresh coffee," he sniffed appreciatively. "I can consign this dish water to the drain it so justly deserves." He said indicating the Starbucks' container. He deposited the file on Spike's desk and crossed the room to the coffee machine. "And scrambled eggs, too. What have we done to deserve an Angel special?" he asked, eyeing Spike's plate and grabbing a fork. and scooping a mouthful.

"Hey! Get your own," yelled Spike reaching over and snatching his plate out of Wesley's reach. "Is everyone moving in on my stuff now?"

"Well, I've eaten all I can," said Connor, rising from his seat. "So I guess I'd better make a move and head back to college. You got an excuse note for missing curfew last night?"

Angel stepped into his path and scrutinised his bruised face. "You've hardly had time to eat anything. And I'd rather you didn't go back until all this is sorted out. I got this strange feeling that we need to stay together until it's all over."

Connor looked at him and shrugged. "OK. I'll give college a ring and tell them I've gone home for a few days."

"I think that might be for the best. Last night's research does indicate that, we do need to stay together for what has to be done next," said Wesley suddenly grim faced again.

"Together," echoed Angel. "Where's Fred?" he asked, anxiously scanning the empty space behind Wesley.

"I presume she's having a late start. We worked into the early hours and she was exhausted. Security drove her home. Mmmm – good eggs," said Wesley pouring himself a cup of coffee and sampling some more from the bowl.

Spike looked up from his plate, which was piled high with toast buried beneath a mountain of scrambled egg. "What? You think she's just slept late with all that's been goin' on? Didn't you notice how upset she is by all this lost memories thing? Not to mention the duplicate time-line that can't possibly exist. My guess is she's too hyped to sleep."

Angel and Wesley exchanged concerned glances as Gunn reached for the phone and dialled Fred's number.

"No answer."

"Maybe she's already on her way in," suggested Wesley.

"That's her mobile number Charles just dialled," said Lorne, lifting his head from the pillow and shielding his eyes from the sunlight.

Spike frowned. "How'd you know that, Sleeping Beauty?"

"Dial tones are like music," replied Lorne.

"That so? Can you read if the phone's gonna be picked up? 'cos that would be nifty." Spike tilted his head and squinted at Lorne before piling more toast and eggs on his plate.

Wesley placed his cup on the counter and strode towards the door.

"Wes?" Angel called.

"I'm going to find her." He said as he turned the doorknob.

"No, Wes, we need you here," said Angel firmly. "Spike'll go."

"Can't I just finish . . . "

"No!" Angel swung his head towards Spike who was busy shovelling eggs into his mouth. "It's not like you need to eat that stuff, Spike. It's . . ." Angel struggled to find the right words. "Habit. That's all it is."

"But I like it," protested Spike. "Reminds me of when I was a kid."

Angel took the plate out of Spike's hands and shoved him towards the door. "Yeah? Well that was a long time ago, Sonny. Now, mind what Grandpa tells you. Get over it. Get gone. Get Fred. Got it?"

Spike opened the door and hesitated. "Hang on a mo'. Give me something to go on. Where might she have gone? And how the bloody hell am I supposed to get there in broad daylight?"

The others looked at one another for inspiration. Finally, Lorne spoke. "Fredle's been upset by what's happened hasn't she?"

Spike nodded.

Lorne sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and yawned. "Um, Would you say she was a little unbalanced?" he asked choosing his words carefully.

Spike nodded again, his mouth full of the toast he'd snatched from the plate Angel had removed from him. "Mmmm. Don't . . ." he chewed rapidly and swallowed. "Don't tell me no one noticed?" he gazed at the others. Angel looked away, unable to meet his gaze. Wesley studied the bottom of his coffee cup and Connor looked bemused.

"Everyone too wrapped up in their own little problems to notice one of our own going over the edge?"

Lorne hung his head and murmured he'd been out of town most of the time.

Spike patted his shoulder. "Wasn't referring to you, Dean. Or you," he said over his shoulder to Connor. He glared at the others, his eyes flashing yellow with anger. "Bloody typical! Fred's been sliding backwards. She's fading away before your eyes. Didn't you hear what she said last night about handsome men saving her from monsters? What was all that about?"

"Wasn't referring to you, Dean. Or you," he said over his shoulder to Connor. He glared at the others, his eyes flashing yellow with anger. "Bloody typical! Fred's been sliding backwards. She's fading away before your eyes. Didn't you hear what she said last night about handsome men saving her from monsters? What was all that about?"

"Pylea," groaned Lorne. "She was talking about the time we got her out of Pylea."

"Of course," said Wesley. "Why didn't I see this before? She'd not just lost her memories of Connor, she's losing her memories of her time here." Wesley crossed the room and stood before Spike. "You'll find her in her old room upstairs in the Hyperion. Take the Viper and park in the alley at the back,. It's in shade at this time of the morning, so you shouldn't have any difficulty." Wesley glanced at Angel, his face tight with anxiety. "If she's reverted to the state she was in when she first arrived there, do you really think she'll come back with Spike?"

Angel thought for a second, looked at Spike who raised a querying eyebrow, and said, "Spike isn't part of her lost memories. And she trusts him,- for some unknown reason." He glanced again a Spike whose face creased in a huge grin.

"Knew my charm and sparkling wit'd come in handy one day, Peaches. Leave it to me. I'll have her back in the bosom in a jiffy."

"Spike!" Angel warned. "Take care. She's fragile. It won't take much to push her over and we'll lose her. And we can't lose her. Not Fred. Not after Cordy."

Spike studied his grandsire's face. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson with Dana," he said, sweeping from the room. "Despite what you thought, I learned my lesson."


	14. Monsters of Chaos

Chapter 14: Monsters of Chaos

* * *

The Hyperion was in darkness.

Angel had followed Spike down to the garage and given him the keys to the delivery entrance, together with instructions about how to find Fred's room. _Not like I need them, _grumbled Spike to himself, as he pushed the heavy door open and listened to the protesting squeal of its rusty hinges. _I could track her anywhere, now. She 's giving off so many distress signals, it's like the sinking of the bloody Titanic. _He switched on the security light and squinted through the dust-laden air, inhaling deeply.

"Yup! Door to the left, then up the main staircase," he chanted, repeating the directions Angel had given him.

As he passed through the inner lobby door, a slight noise from behind stopped him in his tracks. He reached backwards and yanked a figure out of the small alcove beside a second door.

"Oh, it's you. What are you doing skulking around after me, young Frankenstein?" he asked, recognising the young man who worked in Fred's lab.

"Following you to find Fred, " replied Knox with a slight smile. "We need her."

Spike frowned. "Yeah? And just who might _we_ be?"

"Shhh – what's that?" Knox jumped at the sound of a dull thump from above their heads.

"Stay here," Spike ordered. "Anything comes down those stairs that isn't me or Fred hit i. . ." Spike looked disparagingly at the young scientist. "Hide."

Knox didn't argue, but as Spike sprinted away up the stairs, scaling them in a few bounds, he crept up towards the source of the noise that had startled him. In the dark corridor, light from a single bare bulb streamed through an open door. Knox peered in cautiously and gasped at the sight of Fred, standing on a bed, scribbling furiously on the one remaining bare patch of wall in the room. The rest were covered with complicated mathematical formulae and diagrams.

Spike stood in the centre of the room, slowly turning and taking in the seemingly random marks on the walls. He approached Fred quietly and reached out and touched her elbow. ""Why didn't you work on this at your desk, Pet? There a paper shortage?"

Fred stopped scribbling and turned her head slightly. "Spike?" She frowned. "You think it would be easier at a desk? I haven't room to breathe on a desk. I started with quantum mechanics there, but I need space . . . and time . . ." She waved a hand, gesturing the wall behind Spike. "It's all about wave theory over there. And particle theory over here," she indicated the wall beside the bed. "But I can't find the QED," she complained. She clambered down from the bed and stood gazing at a spot beside the dresser. "Particle theory is very neat, don't you think?"

"Well, if you say so, Princess," Spike raised an eyebrow and squinted at her. "I'll take your word for it."

"Yes, it is. All. Very. Nea . ." Fred rushed over to the other side of the room. "Except this part," she showed Spike an equation, then grabbed his hand and dragged him to a corner beside the wardrobe. "Can you see this? Einstein. Relativity. It's so beautiful. Perfect in fact. That's the problem." She stopped, suddenly aware of Knox's presence in the room.

Knox walked over to the section she'd described and nodded. "You know, all this could be the answer we're looking for," he told her, smiling.

"I thought I told you to stay put," Spike growled, swinging round and glaring at him.

Fred frowned at Knox in concentration. "You think so? I've been working on it for so long. You think it's nearly time?"

"I think we've almost missed the time," replied Knox, ignoring Spike's glare.

"Time for what?" asked Spike looking at his watch._ When did I get a watch_? he wondered.

Fred pointed at a line of equations. "Here's the spatial geometry of the de-Sitter universe, it's Euclidean, so _this_, stands." She indicated an equation beginning AB(sqroot(x2-x1)2. "But it's two- dimensional, so, what happens when you take Lorentz's transformations into account?" She scrawled on the wardrobe door. "You see, simple rotations of space-time axes, according to Miniwski, space and time are not separate, they're a unitary entity – space-time."

Spike squinted at her from under increasingly furrowed brows and gazed uncomprehendingly at what looked like a series of mesh ice-cream cones, joined at their points or bases.

"Take the straight world-line through them, joining events that correspond to the time line. Quantity T is equal to the difference in time – it's the proper time between events, measured by the clock." She grasped Spike's wrist and looked at the watch, tapping its dial. "Proper time . . ." She trailed off and swung back towards the section of wall she'd been working on when Spike entered the room. "No, no! That's not it." She clambered back on the bed before Spike could stop her and began crossing out and replacing parts of her work.

Spike took her in his arms and gently pulled her away from the wall. "Fred, you're knackered. Why don't you come with me and get some rest. You can work on this later."

"No. I have to keep going," she protested. "There's something I'm missing. The maths and physics don't explain it all, that's the problem. Minowski's universe is a static one, in which all temporal cross sections are exactly similar to one another and all particles, considered as four dimensional objects, lie along parallel lines."

"Well if the science doesn't explain it, Pet . . ." Spike began pulling her gently from the bed.

"But it does, it must!" cried Fred. "Minowski's model demonstrates the non static nature of the universe by the dissimilarity of temporal cross sections and the non parallelism of the world lines of particles."

Spike looked around for Knox for an indication of how he might distract Fred's concentration, but he had his back to them, studying a section of wall.

Fred scrutinised the wall in front of her. "If time advances up the manifold, this could be a new time direction, orthogonal to the old one. A fifth dimension – hypertime – of course, the de-Sitter Universe again." Fred glanced at Spike's blank look of incomprehension and began scribbling on the wardrobe door again. "And once we have hypertime, the possibility of hyper-hypertime."

Spike sighed. "Glad you've got all that sorted then. Shall we go now?"

"No! If I don't finish this, I'll forget. Just like I'm forgetting . . ." She stopped and looked shivered, looking wildly around the room. "Feigenbaum, he's the master of chaos. He has the solution. Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Feigenbaum. He's got to be around here somewhere. He has the answers - the master of chaos. I never . . ." Fred looked at Spike and smiled. "Spike. What are you doing here?"

"Come to take you home, Princess. You need to get some rest. Everyone's worried about you back at the ranch," he said .

Fred gave a small laugh. "Back at the ranch. You're not taking me to Texas, are you?"

Spike sat on the edge of the bed and patted the space beside him. "Sit down for a mo'. Get your breath back. Then we'll take a quick spin across town to see some friends of ours who're gonna help put everything to rights again. Meanwhile – you," he jerked his head at Knox. "Got one of those mobile phones with you? Best give Angel a ring and let him know we found . . ." Spike stopped at the sight of Knox taking a camera out of a bag and filming Fred's work. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Spike sprang to his feet and grabbed Knox's arm.

Knox lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's the only way we'll get her to agree to some back with us," he said. "If she knows we have her work on film."

Spike turned to look at Fred. She'd climbed down from the bed and was waiting, silently, for Knox to finish filming each section.

"You will help me, won't you?" she asked Knox quietly.

"Of course. It's what I've been waiting for my whole life." Knox smiled at Fred and took her hand in his. "Here, let Spike drive you back and I'll follow when I've finished up here. I don't want to miss anything."

Fred glanced over her shoulder as Spike led her towards the door. "Please be careful," she called. "You're sure you won't miss anything? It's taken me so long." As they made their way downstairs, she explained to Spike "It's the only thing I'm sure of. Everything else is fading. I feel as if _I'm_ fading."

* * *

Fred's face looked grey and drawn, large dark circles emphasising the hollows under her eyes. Spike looked at her with concern as she fastened her seatbelt.

"Are you ok?" he asked.

She straightened and stared out of the window, avoiding the question. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe. Angel and Wes are working on a way to get us all back home safe."

"Angel," she murmured. "He was here, at the hotel, and then . . . And Wesley, and someone else. A woman." She frowned and chewed the end of her hair in concentration. "Charles, his name is Charles." Fred looked at Spike, wide-eyed. "But you weren't there. You're Spike. You're a vampire – with a soul!" she finished triumphantly.

"That I am, love." Spike sighed. "And I think I'm as in the dark as you seem to be about what the bloody hell is going on." Spike stopped the car and turned to face her, serious, eyes searching hers for some assurance that the Fred he knew was still in there. "Are you sure you want to go back, Pet? 'cos just say the word and we can take off and leave them to sort out all this quantum thingy mumbo jumbo. We could be in Europe, or somewhere else, far away from all this. Texas p'rhaps?"

Fred took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently. "I can't," she said simply. "All this quantum thingy mumbo jumbo is what I do. It's what brought me to LA. And now, I'm needed." She touched his cheek with her fingertip. "But thank you. That was a sweet offer."

Spike brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. "Sweet? Don't think I've ever been called that before. And I've never been given the brush-off quite so graciously – or for quantum thingy mumbo jumbo, either," he chuckled. He patted her hand and placed it back on her knee and switched on the ignition. "So, it's back to the monsters of chaos. Wolfram and Hart it is."

"Wolfram and Hart," murmured Fred. "Did you know they were demons at the time of the Old Ones?" She stared into the distance. "The Wolf, the Ram, the Hart. They've changed the name of the server, you know. They're in control of the computer system – and the interface for Wesley's books. They're the expert system of the demon world – wait – expert systems – Feigenbaum. That's where I'll find him."

"In the computer?" asked Spike, frowning.

"No, silly, in my office. He's a rabbit – with glasses," she explained.

"Oh, a rabbit is the cause of all this chaos. That explains everything," laughed Spike. "Anya was right all along."

Fred looked at him in surprise. "Anya?"

"Ex-Vengeance demon I knew briefly, one of the Scoobies," Spike explained. _Wonder if she made it out of the Hellmouth? Hope so, she deserved better than a grisly end or, god forbid, life with Harris, _he thought as he eased the Viper out of the alley into the traffic.

"What's a Scooby?"

"You got a few years, or will the abridged version do?"

* * *

Angel stood facing his office windows, his back towards the others, who waited patiently for his reaction to Wesley's analysis of what had been discovered the previous night. He turned slowly and gazed at Connor, his eyes betraying a sadness that had been absent since Connor had regained his memories. "You know, Wes, how much I hate being driven by any prophecies you dig out of those books. Are you sure this one is to be trusted? I mean 'the son fighting alongside the father' has a familiar ring to it." He grimaced and fixed Wesley with a worried look; one that was devoid of any accusation relating to Wesley's actions with regard to a different prophecy.

Before Wesley could respond, the phone on Angel's desk rang. Angel picked it up on the second ring. "What is it Harmony? Spike? Has he found . . ? Oh, she's there with him. Well send them both . . . Why is he in a mood? Oh. Guess I forgot to mention . . ." Angel replaced the receiver on its cradle. "Spike's found Fred. He couldn't find us. We did tell him we'd be changing offices, didn't we?" Angel looked up from the phone to see four heads shaking their disagreement.

Wesley stood beside Angel's desk and lifted a manuscript. "Getting back to business. It's not just the prophecy," he said softly. "There's Lorne's reading of Connor and Gunn's painful audience with the entity in the White Room. They all point to the same conclusion."

"Which is?"

"That we need more from Ethan if we're to make any progress with the method by which we can return to our proper time."

"Ah, yes, Ethan. Our little chaos-worshipper-in-residence. I think we'd better bring him back into the spotlight to sing for me," said Lorne reaching for his mobile. "I'll cancel all my appointments for the day. I'll be ready when I've recharged the batteries with a couple of migraine pills and some strong coffee."

Angel looked at him in alarm. "Are you sure you're up to that, Lorne? Only, last night you said . . ."

"I know what I said, last night, Angelcakes. But if we're heading back to real time, it's the least I can do to help speed us on our way down the Yellow Brick Road."

The office door swung open. "Hope that doesn't involve a repeat performance with Liz's mighty necklace from yours truly," said Spike, ushering Fred in. "'cos I've sworn off the sparklies for the duration."

Wesley raised an eyebrow at him. "As usual, Spike, I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. But, no, the ritual I believe will be useful for getting us back doesn't involve your wearing any jewellery, although there are crystals involved." Wesley gestured at Knox who had followed Spike and Fred into the room. "After Fred left us last night, Knox and I unearthed information about the Old One who plays a part in both Angel and Connor's destinies; an Old One who should have appeared at Wolfram and Hart by now but hasn't. Knox has provided some detailed information about her and unearthed a summoning spell that should help us."

"Old Ones? Fred was talking about Old Ones on the way back." said Spike.

Fred looked at him in alarm. "Was I? I keep forgetting." She turned a complete circle, looking at each of them in turn.

"Have you remembered me, yet?" asked Connor, stepping towards her.

"Of course, you're Connor. You're a student at USC, doing your internship here," replied Fred, smiling broadly at him.

"So, you don't remember me from before?"

"Before? Before what?" Fred flinched and turned to Spike. "Was there a before?"

Wesley shook his head sadly and led her to the seating in the centre of the room. "Fred, why don't you sit here for a while and I'll explain everything to you when you're rested." He turned to Spike. "Spike, would you mind asking Harmony to bring some tea?"

Spike threw up his head and roared at the open door. "Harmony!"

Harmony popped her head around the doorframe. "You don't have to yell, _Spike_. I can hear. Vampire hearing, remember?"

"Oh, 'scuse me, Miss Touchy, I thought you were way down the corridor at your desk, where you're s'posed to be, not listening at doorways," Spike smirked at her.

"Yeah, well, I am Angel's assistant. I came to – assist," Harmony tossed her head at him.

"Yeah? Assist then. Get Fred some tea. "Camomile all right, princess?"

Fred nodded, wearily and turned her attention back to Connor. "Were you at the Hyperion, before all this?" she asked. "It's just, there's a woman who worked with us. But I can't remember who she . . ."

"Cordelia," replied Connor, quietly, moving across the room to sit beside her. "You don't remember Cordy?"

Fred looked away from him towards Wesley and Angel who were standing side by side regarding her with concern. "Did she come here with us? Where is she?" she asked.

Connor took Fred's hand in his. "Cordy's dead."

Fred looked at her hand in Connor's. "Dead?" she whispered. "How? When?"

Angel moved closer and crouched beside her. "She was injured in a fight . . ." He stopped and looked at Connor, not wanting to re-live the painful moments that had led to Cordelia's death and the deal with Wolfram and Hart. "And she went into a coma that she never came out of. She died a few weeks ago."

A single tear rolled down Fred's cheek. "She's like a ghostly memory. I can see what I think is her face, but I can't recall anything else."

Angel walked back to his desk and picked up a picture frame and passed it to her.

"This is Cordelia," she ran a finger over the image. "I know something about her is important, but what?"

"She died before I could tell her I loved her," whispered Angel, taking the frame from Fred's hands and arranging it carefully back in the exact spot from which he'd removed it earlier.

"She knew," said Lorne. "And she knew that you knew she loved you."

"If you're gonna go into one of those Noel Coward, routines, I think I'm gonna puke," said Spike, scathingly. "Shouldn't we be getting on with the moving escalator of time instead of slipping back down memory lane?"

Harmony came in, carrying a tray of tea for Fred. She set it down on the low table in front of the sofa and turned to go. "Anything else I can do, Boss? Fetch anything? Anyone?"

"Good idea, Harmony," replied Angel, tossing her a key. "Go unlock the mail room stationary closet."

"You want stationary supplies? I'm not the paper person, I'm more of a people person."

"It's a peop . . . person I want you to bring to us. A slippery character, name of Ethan Rayne. He's been locked in there all night, so he might want a bit of freshening before he gets here."

"Right Boss, anything you say," said Harmony brightly moving towards the door.

"Oh, and Harm," Spike called after her. "You feel like a little snack, feel free to indulge.."

"Harmony, Don't listen to Spike . Ethan is human, just not a very nice human. . . Oh ok," said Angel off Spike's querying glance, "I know I gave you permission to get information out of him any way you could, but that did _not_ include biting him."

"Well, guess I was wrong," interjected Gunn. "I said it'd come down to a team vote about that."

"Now I'm confused," said Harmony, retracing her steps and coming back into the room. "Do I or do I not get to have a little taste?"

Five voices answered her, simultaneously.

"Yes." said Spike grinning at Angel.

"No!" cried Angel glaring at him.

"No!" Wesley exclaimed, looking up in alarm from his seat beside Fred.

"No!" Lorne added his voice to the protests.

"Don't look at me, I'm new to all this," said a bewildered Connor, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Guess the nos have it," Harmony reasoned, shrugging. "So, you just want him here, all fresh as a daisy and ready to – what?"

"Sing," said Lorne. "And tell him I can provide Karaoke for almost anything he has in mind. But I'll need notice of anything pre-1920s – or classical," he added as an afterthought.


	15. Blood Brothers

Chapter 15: Blood Brothers.

Wesley considered the page in front of him again then turned to the documents Knox had handed him earlier. He leaned back in his chair and sighed.

"I'm no wiser," he said, looking up at the ceiling. "The crystals are here, in this building, somewhere. Why?"

Spike pushed himself away from the wall he'd been sent to lean against to smoke endless cigarettes and stop him interrupting the others while they worked. "Does it matter? Let's go get 'em."

"It's not that simple, Spike," said Angel. "If Wes is right, these are linked to The Old One in some way. We have to be . . . "

"What? Careful? Take a look at what's happening Angel." Spike gestured at Fred who was rocking herself, clutching Feigenbaum. "_And_ we're another man down."

"Yes," said Wesley quietly. He didn't dare look at Fred. "Gunn _was_ rather upset, wasn't he?"

"Gone right over the edge, more like," replied Spike. "You using the interface thingy to reveal the contents of the file from the other time line?" Spike raised an eyebrow.

Angel looked at Spike. _On target_ – _again_, he thought_. Can't have him upsetting Wes any more right now_. "OK. That's it. Go see if you can track down the crystals. Take Knox."

"What?" Spike appealed to Angel. "Oh. No! Andrew was bad enough!"

Angel pushed the door open and gave Spike a little shove. "Take your time," he said smiling at Knox. "There's a lot more work to be done here. We'll be a lot faster without Spike cluttering the place up."

" I don't clutter," Spike protested.

Angel closed the door behind him.

--------------------------

As they passed through the lobby, Spike spotted Gunn emerging from his office. His smart business suit, the badge of the successful lawyer, had been discarded in favour of a grey sweatshirt and jogging pants. Gunn looked completely drained, his head lowered, eyes refusing to meet those of Wolfram and Hart's busy employees who were going about their daily business as if he didn't exist.

Harmony's chirpy voice carried down the corridor from the reception desk where she was deep in conversation on the phone. "I'm sorry, Angel is in conference at the moment, Mr Jenoff. . . . How long? . . . For the foreseeable future. I could pencil you in for sometime next week . . ."

A group of lawyers emerged from the elevator.

" A deferral. Something about new evidence," said a slight young man carrying a sheaf of papers.

"Clutching at straws more like," replied his companion. "Jenoff isn't going to wait much longer before he takes direct action."

"I heard our golden boy lawyer is beginning to lose it. Happens to them all sooner or . . ." he stopped as he spotted Gunn walking towards them.

A demon with a mobile phone pressed to his ear pushed past Gunn who suddenly slumped onto the bottom step of the main staircase. "Sorry," muttered Gunn. "Sorry." He put his head in his hands and groaned.

Gunn and Spike motioned Knox to continue on. He joined Gunn and the two of them sat silently side by side on the bottom step of the main staircase in the reception area. Gunn clasped his hands together and studied a point on the floor in front of them, while Spike watched the to-ings and fro-ings of Wolfram and Hart personnel.l going about their daily business.

"So how come it's just me and you out here twiddlin' our thumbs with nothin' to do, then, Chuck?" asked Spike.

"Guess it's because there's all that book work going on in Wes's office," replied Gunn glumly without looking up from the floor.

"Well, yeah, I can see how that rules me out, but not you. You could still be in there, puttin' in your twopence worth," said Spike.

"After Wes worked out that the second file on Connor wasn't blank after all, I kinda lost it again, you know? All he had to do was put the damn thing through that interface of his and suddenly – wham – there it was. Why couldn't I have thought of that?"

"You may not be firing on all cylinders," agreed Spike, "but then, neither's Fred."

"True," replied Gunn looking with concern down the corridor towards Wes' office. "She's phasing in and out a lot more isn't she?"

"Like a bloody telly that's not quite on station. And there's not a soddin' thing we can do about it. Can't give her a good thump now, can we?"

"Wes thinks the best thing we can do for her is let her rest. That's why Lorne's switching duties. He's gonna look after her in Angel's office, using it as his base for the time being. Seems the show must go on," replied Gunn bitterly. "While I've nothing to do except stare at that pile of paperwork in my office that's – piling up," he finished lamely.

Spike looked at him and thought for a moment. "I look at it this way, Charlie, I'm here, things need doing – important things. So I'm not gonna waste my time whinging about not being over in Europe, sunning myself, in Buffy's presence and fighting the good fight in la Bella Roma. At least _there _I'd get a shot of saving the girl every now and then."

Gunn shot him a small smile. "Angel keeping you on a tight rein still?"

"Too bloody right. And he knows _I'm_ not one for much book research either. Leave all that to the Head Boy and His Mighty Broody self. S'pose as soon as they're finished, they'll fill us in with what we do next. Meantime, why don't you and I go and get a spot of action? I'm itchin' to do something. All this sittin' about's getting on my wick."

"I can't even get past the first sentence on any page in that pile in my office without using a dictionary, Spike. What do you suggest? I go and give it a good beating against the wall?"

Spike snorted. "You're not giving up that easily, Chuck. As it happens, I've got an assignment. Some crystals need finding. Can't guarantee they come with the girl."

"The summoning crystals?"

"That's the ones. Science Boy Lad's gone on ahead. Seems he knows a fella."

------------------------

Knox looked up from the microscope. "What took you?" he asked as Spike squinted over his shoulder at down through the eyepiece.

"Just stopped off for some back-up," said Spike. "What _is_ this?"

"Nothing that need concern you," said a voice from behind him.

Spike whirled around at the sound of a slight gasp from Gunn.

"You! You promised," Gunn spat at the man who'd emerged from the inner-office door behind Spike.

"I told you, Mr Gunn. You have nothing to trade. The implant wasn't permanent." The scientist smiled, revealing an overly full set of teeth.

Gunn grasped the scientist's throat. "That wasn't made clear," he snarled.

"My, my, someone else who didn't read the small print carefully enough. And you a lawyer. You should know better."

"You two know each other?" asked Spike, pushing them apart.

Gunn backed away and leaned against the workbench. "This is the slimeball who gave me the implants – all the knowledge – the deductive reasoning."

"As I said, Mr . . .?" The scientist looked at Spike, who ignored his outstretched hand. "What Mr Gunn failed to realise was that those skills came with a price attached."

Spike sighed. _Doesn't everything always_?

"I knew that," said Gunn. "Hire not buy." He gave a hollow laugh and appealed to Spike. "Did we really think we could work from inside the belly of the Beast? We all gained something coming here."

"'Cept me. I didn't get squat – unless you count this sodding watch." He held it to his ear and then shook it. "Doesn't even tick," he grumbled, peering at it. "Time was watches let you know what they were up to."

"Time is not on our side," Knox reminded them. "We're here on a mission, not to help Gunn with his - _problem_." He sneered at Gunn who squared up to him, towering above his slight form.

"Gunn!" Spike shook his head. "Now's not the time, Chuck. We came here for the crystals."

Gunn relaxed slightly and moved away from Knox, who breathed a small sigh of relief. "Yes, the crystals. We know where they are," he said smugly.

"We?" Spike asked.

"The Doctor and I share an interest in the Old Ones. He's an expert in the magical peripherals connected with burial and resurrection rights. Wolfram and Hart has a whole archive devoted to . . ."

"An archive?" asked Gunn. "Why didn't you tell Wesley earlier?"

"Because . . ." Knox groped for a reasonable excuse.

"Because he didn't know about it," concluded the Doctor. "I've only just told him."

Spike's eyes narrowed and he tilted his head to consider the two scientists. There was something about their interest in the Old Ones that made him uneasy but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Something Knox had said earlier when they were with Fred in the Hyperion. He shook himself. _Focus_. _Here for the crystals._

"So, how do we get them _out_ of the archives?" Gunn broke the silence that had greeted the Doctor's words. "You got the password?" he asked Knox.

Knox paled. "Not exactly," he gulped. "There's a guardian – that must be challenged – you'll need weapons."

Spike sighed again. "Lead the way, Lad."

"Oh, _we're_ not coming," said the Doctor, smiling again. "We're men of science. We leave the fighting to you hero-warrior types."

Spike growled softly.

"Just tell us what we need and where to go," said Gunn resignedly. He turned to Spike. "At least we know what we're doing with a fight, right?"

------------------------

The corridor security lights glowed dimly as Spike and Gunn made their way wearily back to Wesley's office. Both men were bruised and battered and covered in a sticky green sludge.

"Slime. I hate slime. Why'd it have to be slime?" grumbled Spike.

"Aw, c'mon, Bro'. Don't tell me you didn't enjoy that little tussle?" beamed Gunn slapping him on the shoulder. "Give me a Kelubar (demon name) to fight and I can forget all about . . ." His voice trailed off suddenly. " . . . For a while."

"Yeah – OK. 'S'pose it was fun. I just don't want Brood Boy whinging on about the state we're getting' the floors in." Spike stopped and considered the closed door. "How long they been in there? D'you think they've finished?"

The door to Wesley's office opened and Angel came out, calling across the corridor to them. "You got them?"

Spike held up a small canvas pouch and nodded, bracing himself for complaints about the slime.

Angel swept past without looking at them. "We're ready then. De-briefing. More work to do. My office, in five."

"Better not be reconnaissance again," Spike grumbled softly.

"You think we got time for a shower?" asked Gunn wiping a glob of slime from his sweatshirt.

"Prob'ly not," replied Spike looking down at his own clothes. "Better change though. Least I didn't wear the duster. Slime's a bugger to get out of the leather."

-------------------------------

"No! Not Connor. I'm not losing him again!" Angel rose from his seat and strode over to the window where Connor stood gazing at the LA night skyline.

"You haven't been listening, have you Gramps? The summoning spell needs family blood. It doesn't have to be Connor's, mine'll do. That right Wes?" asked Spike, joining Angel and Connor.

"I hadn't quite finished what I was saying," replied Wesley. "Blood will flow in both time lines. In this one, to restore us back to our proper place in time. In that one, to fulfil our destinies. Blood must flow." Wesley looked up from his papers and across at Spike, then at the others who'd gathered in the Angel's office to hear the results of the previous night's research and the day's work with Angel and Connor. "Family blood, the blood of kinship, clan and brotherhood, willingly shed. But it must be the blood of an Innocent."

"Guess that rules me out then," said Spike.

"And me."

All eyes turned to Connor in surprise.

"I got my memories back, remember?" he said quietly, his eyes fixed on Angel.

"Connor is perfectly correct. It isn't him," said Wesley. "It's . . ."

"It's Fred, isn't it?" finished Gunn. "She's the only one who didn't get anything personal out of coming here."

"I believe so," replied Wesley, his face softening as he looked over to where she lay sleeping fitfully on the couch. "She's the only one who remained innocent of any knowledge of Connor's earlier life. And, as Gunn so rightly pointed out, she's the only one who didn't benefit personally from our coming to Wolfram and Hart. She remained faithful to the mission. She came here to help others – starting with Cordelia."

"No! Not Fred!" cried Lorne.

"I'm not losing another member of this family - not after Cordy," Angel added solemnly.

"We won't lose her," said Wesley. "The Summoning requires only a drop of her blood."

Spike frowned. "Sounds too easy. Spell like this, there's gotta be a bigger price."

"Spike's right. Even if we do summon this Old One, are you certain she can help us?" Angel returned to the desk and looked at the book Wesley had opened.

"I believe so, if what Knox has unearthed about her proves accurate. She has the power to alter time and to move through dimensions," replied Wesley.

"Can – but why would she?"

"Because by restoring us to our proper place in time, she guarantees her own existence," explained Wesley patiently. "According to the prophecy, our destiny is fulfilled when the Old One arises. Her destiny is linked to ours."

"And there's no sign of her in this time line," said Gunn.

"Correct. Connor should not have arrived at Wolfram and Hart until _after_ the Old One." Wesley picked up the book Angel was studying and opened it at an illustration showing a multi-armed creature. "This is the Old One, Illyria. She was killed millions of years ago and placed in a sarcophagus in the Deeper Well. Knox's research indicates that she planned her resurrection and return to her kingdom through the Temple of Valahanash."

Spike looked closely at the illustration. "She's a cutie isn't she? A right little Kali. Think we'd've noticed _her_ by the photocopier."

Angel leaned on the desk and thought for a moment. He looked over to where Lorne sat on the edge of Fred's couch. "OK, so the summoning won't harm Fred, but Lorne _will_ get hurt again if he reads Ethan. Why does he need to do that?"

Wesley sighed deeply. "Believe me, Angel, if there were an easier way, I wouldn't ask him to do it. Illyria may be the key to our return, but we need to know the precise moment that Ethan's actions interfered with your destiny."

"Hang on," interrupted Spike. "Why do we need to go down the wormhole of time with this Illyria bint at all? Once she's unpacked her bags and settled in, who's to say everybody can't fulfil their destinies here?"

Wesley looked across at Fred who appeared to be sleeping more peacefully.

Spike followed his gaze and gave a slight nod. "Right. Fred."

"We would lose her if we stayed here, I'm sure of it," said Wesley gravely.

Spike furrowed his brows. "So we need to take the time trip with the Old One. Still doesn't explain why Lorne has to read Ethan. We could get the info we need as easy as anything. Just leave him with Harmony a couple o' more hours, he'll be beggin' to tell us."

"You wouldn't get the double feature, Slim," said Lorne. As long as there are two time lines, I'm reading two futures."

"Which is theoretically impossible," said Fred, sitting up suddenly.

"Only as much as the Old One is," agreed Wesley, moving swiftly to her side.

"I thought you were supposed to be catching up on some sleep, not dealing with theories," said Angel squatting down beside her.

"I don't want to sleep. I keep having nightmares," said Fred, shakily, getting to her feet. She shivered and looked up at the five anxious faces gathered around the couch. "What's wrong? I'm not sick, am I?" she appealed to Wesley.

"No, you're not," he said gently. "But the sooner we get you back to where we all belong, the better."

"What else do we need? " asked Angel.

"When we're sure we're ready, Knox will bring what we need for the Summoning to the Training Room. Everyone else can watch from the viewing gallery.

"Good idea. Who do you need?"

"Knox for one. His knowledge of Illyria is far superior to mine. He had no trouble finding what we wanted last night when he helped me finish the research after Fred left. It was evident that he's been interested in the Old Ones, and Illyria in particular, for some time. "

"A long time, I'd say," said Gunn. "He knew all about the crystals."

Wesley consulted his papers again. "Ethan should be there, I think. Illyria must see him, so that she can identify who it is she must eliminate. And Fred," Wesley looked up and stared directly into her eyes, "the spell calls for innocent blood, willingly shed. I believe it's yours that's needed."

Fred moved closer to him. She clutched his arm. "Do you really think so? How much do you need?"

"Not a lot. I need only a drop - just a pin-prick really."

"Like Sleeping Beauty," said Spike smiling at her.

"Then the handsome prince will save me again," whispered Fred gazing into Wesley's eyes.

"Yes," he said softly. "And wake you with a kiss."

"Oh," said Spike breathing in suddenly. _So that's who I got the brush-off for_.

Angel cleared his throat noisily. "Wes, before all that, what about Ethan? Harmony has him in the small reception room, fed and watered and ready to perform."

"Then I guess I'm up first," grimaced Lorne. He took a deep breath and walked slowly to the door. "I suppose it could be worse," he said between gritted teeth.

"Worse? How's that?" asked Spike.

He's doing 'Strange Brew'. It could have been 'Tales of Brave Ulysses'."

Spike grinned and raised an eyebrow. "Never knew he and Giles had so much in common."

"Spike!" Angel called, "Go with Lorne. Make sure Ethan's behaving himself. We're gonna have to . . ." he motioned towards Fred with his head.

Spike and Lorne looked to where Wesley sat holding Fred who was sleeping again, her head resting on his chest. Spike nodded and followed Lorne out of the door, closing it quietly behind them.


	16. Future Imperfect

**Chapter 16: Future Imperfect.**

* * *

Lorne stopped outside the door of the reception room and turned to Spike. "I need a drink," he said wearily.

"You and me both," replied Spike, his hand on the doorknob.

"You don't _need_ a drink," replied Lorne.

Spike tilted his head slightly and gave the green demon a questioning look. "What's up?" He dropped his hand from the door.

Lorne sighed and slumped against the wall. "Guess I'm just sick of being the guy who tells people what they want to hear." He looked Spike in the eyes. "Did you see Charles' face when Wes picked up Fred?"

"You mean Gunn and Fred . . .?"

"For a while." Lorne pulled himself upright. "Poor Charles. Lost his powers. Lost his girl." He turned the doorknob and entered the room.

"Tell me about it," muttered Spike following him.

-------------------------------------------

Spike strode over to where Ethan sat sipping what looked like a Bloody Mary from a large tumbler. "Harm been keeping you entertained has she?"

Ethan looked up from the album cover he'd been studying. "She's tried her best, I'm sure. But my tastes run to something a little hotter-bloodied. Though there is the compensation of her somewhat ample attributes that a less ethical person might allow cloud his judgement." He cast an appreciative eye over Harmony's rear end, as she bent to replace a discarded album in the box on the floor.

"Gotta agree with you on that one, mate," said Spike tilting his head for a better view. "Pity the packaging doesn't house something a little less annoying under the bonnet." Spike peered into a box lying on the table beside Ethan. Where'd you find this stuff, Harm? You been to a museum?"

Harmony flashed him a brilliant smile. "Didn't need to Spike, the music archives here give whatever you want just at the flick of a mouse. But then you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, _Mr Technologically Challenged_?"

Spike ignored the gibe. "Flick of a button eh? Really? That where you got all the stuff for my office? Can I get it on the original vinyl like these? Mine had a bit of an accident."

Harmony threw him a disgusted look and opened her mouth to respond.

Lorne seated himself in a chair beside the platform and coughed loudly. "Um, do you think we could skip the golden-oldies discussion before it starts? Let's get this over with."

Ethan looked at him over the rim of his glass? "Over with? What exactly are you going to do?"

The doors swung open revealing Angel and Connor side by side. They held back the double doors for Fred who shuffled slowly into the room supported by Wesley on one side and Gunn on the other.

"What did you think you were going to do here, Ethan? Play us your favourite tracks and have a few drinks before we let you go?" Angel snarled.

"Well, yes, it did cross my mind that might be the best course of action, after the way you treated me last night." Ethan shifted uneasily under Angel's glare.

"Which part of your twisted mind reckons we owe you anything?" growled Spike threateningly. "It's you owes us, chum."

Angel closed the doors and watched as Gunn and Wesley helped Fred to a seat at a table behind Lorne. As he walked slowly towards Ethan, Angel's eyes never left the Mage's face. "OK," he said when everyone was seated. "I'll tell you what's going to happen next. You're going to sing for Lorne. And he's going to read you. He's good at what he does, so he's going to find out exactly what you did and when you did it. And don't even think of refusing to sing, because that road leads back to the stationary closet, and this time I throw away the key."

There was a moment's silence before Angel and Spike suddenly swung their attention to Fred, alarmed by the scent of her increasing distress. She sat hugging her knees and rocking herself slowly, all the time focussing her gaze on Wesley's face. "I shouldn't be here. I should be in the lab working. It's what I do," she murmured to him.

"Shhh," Wesley whispered. "Hold on a little while longer. We're doing everything we can." He took hold of her hands and stopped her rocking.

Fred stiffened and pulled her hands from his grasp. "I am _not_ the damsel in distress, here. I have to work this. Something could have been missed."

Wesley's face crumpled with pain as he watched her try to pull herself together. "Wait a little," he said softly. "You can help me with the Summoning. But you need to be strong. Lean on me." He gathered her in his arms and carried her to a low armchair where he sat stroking her hair, her head resting on his chest.

Ethan fidgeted nervously on his barstool. "I didn't realise I'd have an audience," he said sulkily.

"What's the matter, Ethan? Worried you'll forget your lines? They're right in front of you." Angel glared and gestured at the monitor on the table beside Ethan's barstool.

"And cue music," said Lorne.

The sound system burst into life with the opening riff of the lead guitar. Ethan closed his eyes, held the microphone to his lips and began.

Strange Brew, kill what's inside of you.

She's a witch of trouble in electric blue,

In her own mad mind she's in love with you,

With you. Now what you gonna do?

Strange brew, kill what's inside of you?

Lorne sat forward in his chair, his face rigid with concentration and streaming with perspiration, his breath laboured and rapid. He took a gulp of water from the glass on the table beside him and mopped his brow.

"Anything?" Angel asked anxiously.

"Plenty," gasped Lorne. "This future - no Eve." He gave a hollow laugh. "Congratulations Ethan, promotion and immortality."

Ethan opened his eyes and grinned. "Immortality? Now _that's_ what I call a decent sala. . ."

"I got nothing we're looking for, yet," interrupted Lorne. He studied his hands, which were shaking violently. "Next verse," he croaked.

"If you insist," Ethan shrugged and closed his eyes again.

She's some kind of demon messing in the pooh,

If you don't watch out it'll stick to you, to you,

What kind of fool are you?

Strange brew, kill what's inside of you.

Lorne's head snapped round towards Fred, his eyes wide with horror. He closed them against the images crowding his brain. Fred, leather clad, blue skinned moving in a blur, dragging Knox past the others who moved in slow motion. Spike exploding into dust revealing a blue-haired Fred with a stake in her hand. "No! No, _No_!" screamed Lorne clutching his head.

Angel made a throat-cutting motion to Harmony who switched off the karaoke machine.

"_On a boa_t _in the middle of a ragin'_ . . . What? I wasn't that bad, surely?" asked Ethan opening his eyes. "I had quite a following in my day. Giles and I could have gone right to the top if we hadn't had that little disagreement about musical integrity. I am deeply wounded by the implied criticism of your screams."

"You'll be deeply wounded by more than that if you don't shut it," snapped Spike.

Gunn knelt down beside Lorne. "Lorne? What is it? What did you see?"

Lorne opened his eyes and looked at him, unable to speak. He motioned at the empty glass and Gunn hastily poured some more water and handed it to him. Lorne took a deep breath and slowly drank the contents of the glass. He rose to his feet and took some more deep breaths, looking at each of the others in turn but carefully avoiding Fred. "Ok," he said, finally. "I got the two futures. And here's the thing. In the one we're interested in, he's not here."

"Not here," cried Ethan, springing to his feet. "You don't mean I'm . . . " Harmony pushed him back onto the stool.

"I mean not here in LA," replied Lorne icily. "You're where you should have stayed, in Cleveland."

Angel studied Lorne's face. "What about the rest, Lorne? What else did you see?"

"Too much, way too much," groaned Lorne.

Wesley lifted Fred onto another chair and moved to Lorne's side. "Lorne, please. Did you see anything that will help us with Illyria?"

"Illyria!" Lorne choked back a sob and sank back into his chair.

"Did you see her? What's she like, all arms and blood and terminal ugliness?" asked Spike.

Lorne ran a hand across his eyes. "No, she's not, she's . . ."

"Don't let them take me!" cried Fred suddenly, springing to her feet and looking round her wildly.

Gunn caught her in his arms as she collapsed.

"Lorne!" cried Wesley, rushing to Fred's side. " For pity's sake, tell us, we don't have much time left."

Lorne looked at Gunn as he carefully laid Fred down on the floor. Wesley knelt beside her and placed a cushion under her head and checked her breathing.

"It . . . it was a blur," stammered Lorne. "I'm not sure what I saw."

"Give it your best shot, mate. That's all we ask," said Spike patting his shoulder.

Lorne took another deep breath. "Illyria has to go back to kill Ethan," he whispered. "If she kills him before he has a chance to do the deal with the Jenoff, before Spike recorporealises . . . That's what she has to do in this time line to . . ." He stopped and looked again at Gunn. "But I saw . . . I thought I saw . . . but it couldn't be . . . she couldn't . . .

Angel's hand shot out suddenly and grasped Ethan who had left his seat and was creeping quietly along the wall towards the door. He shoved him into a chair. "Sit! And stay!" he ordered. "Or I'll have Harmony chain you up somewhere not very nice."

Lorne got up and walked slowly towards the door, glancing at Gunn once again before opening it. "I'm sorry, Angelcakes," he said. "That's all I can give you. I got nothin' else I can't . . ." He walked out into the corridor closing the door quietly behind him.

"Lorne!" Wesley called after him.

"If he's doubting himself, he won't be any good to us," said Spike looking at the door.

"Spike's right," said Angel. "Let him go. We've got what we need. We shouldn't push him for any more."

"At least he didn't have the nose bleeds and migraine. I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies," agreed Wesley. He looked down at Fred who moaned slightly and opened her eyes.

"Is it today?" she asked sitting up.

"Yes. You only slept for a few minutes," replied Wesley helping her to her feet.

"What was I doing sleeping on the floor?" said Fred gazing round the room at the karaoke set-up.

"Ethan's singing put you to sleep, Pet," said Spike smiling slightly. "That's how bad he was."

"And now, we're going to start the real work of the night. Harmony, kit out the guest suite for whatever this creep wants for his final hours in this alternate reality," Angel called over his shoulder. He strode towards the doors dragging a protesting Ethan with him. "Come on people, let's get cracking."

"_Get cracking_," said Fred mockingly. "He's such an old fogey." She smiled at Wesley and took the arm he offered as they followed Angel into the corridor.

----------------------------------------------

The office was eerily quiet. Angel sat at his desk contemplating the events of the past weeks. Connor was back in his life. A new Connor, but still his son. He looked across the room to where Spike, Connor, Wesley and Gunn sat in silence. Connor seemed to be dozing, his head lolled back against the headrest, his breathing even and shallow. Wesley's face was grey, his clothes dishevelled and dusty. He hadn't shaved in days and looked as is he hadn't slept much either, his eyelids puffy and hooded. Gunn didn't move, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window in the dark night sky.

The stillness was broken by Spike tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. He fidgetted and patted his pockets, searching for his cigarettes.

"Don't even think of it, Spike," snapped Angel. "Go outside if you want to . . ."

"Aw, c'mon, Peaches, I need to do _something_, Spike protested. "What're we doing sittin' around? What happened to _get cracking_?"

"It is the middle of the night," Wesley reminded him. "Fred's sleeping. She'll need all her strength to get through the Summoning."

"I thought you said you needed just a drop of blood," asked Connor, opening his eyes.

"She'll need her strength for the spiritual strain she'll have to endure," replied Wesley patiently. "The Summoning is a powerful spell."

Angel stood up and stretched his legs. "Are you really sure we have to go through with this Wes?" he asked. "Lorne saw something that has him badly freaked."

"I'm sure Fred won't survive if we don't," Wesley replied. "We'll lose her. And I can't, Angel, not now. I've only just . . ."

"We're not gonna lose her," said Spike emphatically. "Not this girl, not this day."

Angel turned to look at him questioningly.

"It's what we do – save the girl," said Spike.

"It's what we _used _to do," murmurred Angel looking at his son. "Once upon a time."


	17. Family Matters

Family Matters

* * *

The room was empty, abandoned after the call from Lorne saying that Fred was awake and feeling better. The grey light of dawn filtered through the blinds casting mote laden beams onto the floor. The conference table was strewn with the books and papers of the previous days' work. In a corner, Spike's ashtray overflowed onto the carpet, evidence of his attempts to curb his impatience. Empty coffee cups littered Angel's desk. Outside, the corridor was alive with noise and movement.

"You're sure about this Wes? This Summoning's a mighty powerful spell." Gunn echoed Angel's concerns of the previous night.

"Yeah, Perce. You're messin' with forces we don't understand," agreed Spike. "Well _I_ don't," he said, off Angel's warning look. "Don't tell me _you_ do?"

"I don't have time for this," Angel said. "C'mon. Let's go to work." The two vampires swept through the corridors, Spike's duster billowing behind him as they headed towards the training room. Connor sprinted after them his hastily drained cups discarded on the reception desk.

"I've checked everything a dozen times," replied Wesley, quickening his pace slightly. "Of course, one can never be sure something won't go awry. But Knox has proved invaluable."

"Knox?" Gunn, slowed down to let Wesley catch up. "There's something not quite right about that boy. Him and that Doctor creep."

"Really? Fred seems to think Knox's all right. She told us so - at the picnic. She said she _knew _he wasn't evil."

"Well, _she_ should know," said Gunn. "She works long hours with him. Longer than with us most days."

"Until recently, you mean," said Wesley, looking pained. "Well, he certainly impressed me when Fred and I tried to track down the source of the message containing the prophecy. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that we wouldn't have found a way to solve our problem if it hadn't been for Knox's work that night." Wesley's pace slowed, his thoughts replaying the events leading to the discovery of Illyria and the possibilities her return held for them.

* * *

Fred squinted at the computer monitor and sighed. She pushed herself away from the desk and rubbed her eyes. "Nothing. I can't get through. Have you found anything?" she asked, turning to Knox.

"I've found something on the Wolf, Ram and Hart. Neat idea of yours to go from the mail server to the demon archives. Had no problem finding them," he called without looking up from his screen. "But I don't think that's going to help us."

"It gets us no nearer the origin of the prophecy," Fred agreed. She shivered and put a hand to her head, swaying a little as she did so.

"Are you okay?" Knox left his computer and quickly crossed the room. "Wesley!" he called.

Wesley looked up from his work on a pile of ancient tomes, startled by Knox's use of his first name. "What . . .?" He saw Fred shudder as a wave of pain swept through her whole body. He rushed to her side and grasped her hand, steadying her by the elbow as she swayed again.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Um . . . should I get her some water or something?" asked Knox, moving towards the cooler.

"No, it's nothing," replied Fred, relaxing as the spasm stopped. "It's gone."

Wesley gazed at her face with concern. He marked the dark circles under her eyes and blue bruising to her lips. "You need to rest," he said sternly. "When did you last eat?"

"I don't feel like eating," replied Fred wearily. "I'm too tired to eat."

"There you are, then. You've just said it all," Wesley scolded gently. "Go home and sleep. Knox and I will carry on here."

"But I feel better when I'm working. It's when I stop . . ." Fred took Wesley's hands in hers. "It's just . . . I don't want to let Angel down. He asked _me_ to track down who sent the . . ."

Wesley observed how cold Fred's hands were, cold and slightly blue. "Go," he repeated quietly. "You're not letting anyone down. You've never let anyone down." He gazed at her fondly, stroking her hair, and reached for the phone.

Fred smiled at him and returned his gaze. "Thank you," she said softly.

Wesley cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I'll just call security and get them to drive you home. We need to keep you safe."

As Fred began to gather her things together, she became aware of Knox's presence. He was standing very close, looking at her, a question in his eyes.

"You're seeing Wesley now." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
Fred frowned. "Uh... Oh. OK, " she stammered. That's not connected to keeping me safe in some way, is it?"  
  
"No, I just wanted to get it out there. And I'm totally good with it. I—I know that I've made... advances."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"No, I— I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I love working with you, and that's plenty for me." Knox turned to her computer. "I'll finish that up for you."  
  
"You're sweet," said Fred, picking up her things. She gave Wesley a small smile as she opened the door and left.

"Will you have any better luck, do you think?" asked Wesley peering at the computer screen.

"Luck?" Knox's eyes narrowed. The question had a knife-edge to it.

"With tracking the source of the message?"

"It's not a question of luck. It's skill, expertise, dedication." Knox swung round to face Wesley. "Would you call _your_ research luck?"

"Well, no, not when you put it like that," replied Wesley uneasily. "It's just that with anonymous computer messages, the intent is one of not being tracked down and . . ."

"And you think that the subjects you research don't share that?"

Wesley thought for an instant. "Good point," he replied. "I apologise. Let's begin that again shall we? How difficult is it going to be to find this thing?"

Knox smiled as Wesley relaxed. "Depends," he said. "What are we looking for and what have we got to go on?"

"Will the full text do?" Wesley pulled a sheet of paper from his desk and carried it over to Knox's workstation. "I copied it from the screen when I couldn't find a way of saving it to disc."

"That rules out tracking the source of the message, then – but not the prophecy."

"But I thought you had ways of getting into the system? Couldn't you . . . "

"I could . . . probably. But it'd take too long." Knox fixed Wesley with a steady stare. "Do you _really _want to find who sent it? Or do you want to crack what it means?"

"I'd prefer to know where the message came from," replied Wesley cautiously. "But that's not got a lot to do with finding the prophecy itself, so . . ."

"So let's track the prophecy?"

"I think so. If you believe looking for the messenger will slow us down."

Knox took the sheet from Wesley's hand and began to read. _"Now is not the time. When the Old One awakes, Then shall the son stand beside the father. Blood will flow and thwart the enemy._" He gave a small smile. I can save you _so_ much time," he said gleefully. "You were right in the first place – about luck," he added in response to Wesley's blank stare. "You're _lucky_ you've got me working with you. I've been fascinated by the Old Ones since I was a child. I know just where to start the search."

* * *

Angel and Spike were waiting with Connor for Wesley to catch up, when he arrived at the Training Room.

"It was Knox who suggested we summon Illyria," Wesley explained to Gunn. "He's been somewhat of a fan of hers since he was a child. He knows all about her abilities." Wesley stopped and considered his last sentence. "The term _her_ is a little misleading. We're not really sure if Illyria has a gender, as we know it. But, it helps me to think of it as a her."

Spike gave Wesley one of his patented raised eyebrows and grimaced. "Bloody unhealthy obsession for a young bloke. Should've been into Goths or Heavy Metal." He paused, catching sight of Angel's incredulous glance. "Or been a New Romantic."

"Romantic?" echoed Wesley. "Yes, I suppose he is a Romantic. He certainly has a crush on Fred."

"Who has a crush on Fred?" said a voice behind him.

"Fred! How are you feeling?" Wesley turned to her. He nodded a greeting to Lorne. "And Lorne."

"Better – ish. A little stronger . . . Eager to get back to the real me."

"Is that what will happen?" asked Connor, anxiously. "We'll meet the real – um – _us_?"

Fred smiled at him. "We _are_ the real us."

Connor pushed open the training room door and held it back for her. The others followed as Fred led the way. Lorne looked up at the observation window where he spotted Knox switching on the lighting and sound systems.

Lorne sat down on a bench. "Um – so Charles was right? There are no other selves. No other _usses_?" he asked hopefully.

"Not _different_ other . . ." Fred raised her eyebrows. "_Usses_, anyway. At the moment, there are two lines of our time, running parallel to each other. Our existence here is an anomaly."

"We won't cease to exist when Illyria removes Ethan from this line. We will never have existed here. _Here_ won't ever have existed," added Wesley.

"You mean all this will just wink out of existence?" asked Connor frowning. "Creepy."

Angel thought for an instant. "Then we won't remember anything about the last eight weeks or so?"

"Y . . e . . s." Wesley slowly drew out the single syllable. "They'll never have happened,"

"And we'll return – when exactly?" asked Spike.

"If my calculations are correct, sometime during the day Illyria and Connor first meet," replied Wesley. "I believe Angel's destiny depends on returning to that time to defeat them – the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart. That's what the prophecy means. When Connor and . . . Spike, I believe, will be fighting alongside Angel."

"Will we all be like we were before?" asked Gunn. "Will I get my powers back?"

"We'll be as we were then, with the memories we had then," said Fred. "I'll be Fred again."

"And I'll be Wesley – with only one set of memories," said Wesley thoughtfully. He glanced at Angel. "The memories of last year were created for a reason," he said softly.

"To hide from the truth?" asked Lorne watching the two men closely.

"To endure it," replied Wesley solemnly. "When we return to our proper time, the fabricated ones will be our _only_ memories." He reached out and touched Fred's cheek and stroked it gently. She gave little sign of her earlier weakness, other than the merest hint of dampness to her skin. "We will _all_ have no memory of who Connor really is."

"Except me," said Angel quietly. All eyes swung to regard the elder vampire. "I didn't lose them when I did the deal," he said, gazing fondly at Connor.

"And I never had 'em in the first place," said Spike briskly, breaking the introspective atmosphere. He threw a brotherly arm over Connor's shoulder. "'S bin nice knowin' ya kid. 'Spect I'll be meeting you all over again . . ."

The door banged open behind him, revealing a dishevelled Ethan struggling in Harmony's grip. "He took a lot of persuading, Boss. Didn't want to come here for some reason."

Ethan stumbled to the floor as Harmony flung him into the room. His face was covered in bruises, his bottom lip swelling around a bloody split. "Could it be that I'm a little unwilling to participate in this spell because you people are summoning some Hell God here to kill me?" he asked, giving her a withering look.

Spike lowered his arm from Connor's shoulder and strode over to Ethan. "Don't worry, old chap," he said, pulling Ethan to his feet. "It'll only hurt for a minute. Your Cleveland self won't know anything about it."

"Ethan doesn't have to die here either, Spike," said Wesley evenly. He turned and gave Ethan an icy stare. "Luckily for you, this particular _Hell God_ is adept at moving through time and dimensions. She merely has to remove you from this one before you sign the contract with Jenoff."

Ethan shrugged Spike's hand off his arm and rubbed his face gingerly. "Now how do you propose to persuade her to do that? Have you a royal warrant granting a stay of execution?"

Wesley remained stone-faced. "Illyria was a great power, both feared and loved. So beloved that after millions of years dead, there are still some of her Acolytes on this earth. Knox is one of them. Be nice to him. He might ask her to spare you."

Lorne looked up towards the viewing window in alarm; the image of a blue-haired, leather clad Fred suddenly flashing into his brain.

"I need to go through a few details with all of you before we start," said Wesley. "Knox will need a little time to set up . . . ah, here he is. I think over there will be just right." Wesley motioned to Knox, who had just entered carrying a small box, which he set down in the centre of the room and began to unpack.

Wesley turned to Angel. "Perhaps we should all go to the observation gallery. Harmony, would you stay here and keep an eye on Ethan? Make sure he doesn't do anything silly."

Gunn, Connor and Lorne disappeared through the door leading to the observation room. Ethan swallowed hard and squinted at the young man crouched on the floor.

"Cheer up, mate." Spike had noticed the mage's discomfort. "You're going to Cleveland. Giles is there, last we heard. You can make his life a misery for a bit when you get there," he grinned.

Ethan considered for a moment. "You think so? You're not just saying that to make me feel better about losing my immortality?"

"Can't lose what you never had, chum," replied Spike. "Bit like the whole Shanshu bugaboo." He glanced at Angel as they left the room together. "Ain't that right?"

Angel frowned. "You still mad about that?"

"Damn right I am. _That_ and Buffy. And it's _you_ who's still bangin' on about being her chosen one."

"I _am_," said Angel smugly. "Cookie dough, remember?"

"Not at the last Apocalypse you weren't!" Spike said through gritted teeth. "_Cookie dough_?" Spike's look of confusion was quickly replaced by an irate scowl. "You _ever_ goin' to admit that what I did was for the right reasons?"

Angel sighed. "Look, I thought the Sunnydale Apocalypse could be the one, you know, where the whole Shanshu thing might . . ." He stopped and shook his head slightly. "And then when Buffy sent me away and you did the gig instead . . ." He folded his arms across his chest and glared at Spike, stony faced.

"Oh, so you _were_ jealous."

"Of you?" Angel sneered. "Why? Because you did it to prove something to Buffy?"

"No, because I chose to do it even when she asked me not to." Spike paused and dropped his gaze to the floor. "She _told_ me I'd done enough."

Angel stared at him in surprise.

"Yeah, you heard me," said Spike vehemently looking directly into his eyes. "_I_ – _chose_. Nothing to do with prophecies, or reward, or fulfilling a bloody destiny. Free will. _That's_ what it was all about."

"Free will's one thing, but no one really has totally free choice, Spike," said Angel wearily. "We all have our reasons for choosing – or not choosing things."

"Or people," agreed Spike, relaxing a little.

The two vampires stood silent for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. Spike brushed the toe of his boot along the ground, contemplating the patterns it drew.

He finally looked up at his grandsire. "Look, I don't like you, probably never will. But I chose to stay because you're family – you and Connor - the only one I got now that Dru's buggered off somewhere. Just want you to know – in the other line – the Ethan-free one, I'd do the same." He dropped his eyes to the floor. "_If_ it came to a choice."

Angel remained still. The anger he'd felt at Spike's reopening the old wound of competition for Buffy melted away at the sound of that word _family_. "Let's get back to the others," he said after a long silence. "We've got some farewells to make."


	18. Blood Calls to Blood

Chapter 18: Blood Calls to Blood.

* * *

Six anxious faces regarded Wesley silently as he stood before them with his back to the viewing window. Beyond him, down below in the training room, they could see Knox making the preparations for the Summoning.

Spike and Angel flanked Connor. Spike had forgone his favoured against-the-wall-slouch position, his stance grim faced, arms crossed. Whatever Wesley had to say, it didn't look good. _Watcher's been keeping somethin' to himself. Looks like he's about to share._

Angel's unease about the deal he had done with Wolfram and Hart, the mind wipe and its effects on the others, threatened to overwhelm him._ I'm not gonna be able to do anything about it.Iwon't remember **any** of this. _He placed a hand on Connor's shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze, more for his own sake than for his son's. Connor swung his head to look up at him and gave him a small smile.

Lorne forced his attention down into the training room. Fred clung to his arm. She'd slipped, once again, from the confident Head of Science of that morning, to the helpless and fading girl of yesterday. If he allowed himself to look at her, the visions threatened to overpower him. He could make no sense of them; the knowledge they offered was beyond anything he'd ever experienced through his readings. He'd had to force himself to stay, even as his instinct told him to leave; leave Wolfram and Hart, LA, the dimension if necessary. Lorne felt his hands start to shake and sweat rolled down into his eyes. He bit his lip and reached for the handkerchief in his pocket with one hand, holding onto Gunn's arm for support with the other. "To keep me from running," he muttered by way of explanation.

Gunn looked down at the hand gripping his arm. _Must be something bad comin'_. "Thought it was keep _on_ runnin'," he said, lightly.

This was the cue Wesley needed. "Lorne is right to be afraid," he began. "There is a part of the spell which is extremely unpredictable." He turned and gestured at Knox. "The Circle of Summoning," he explained, as Knox drew an almost perfect circle of red sand on the floor, "is just the beginning. Knox will draw the mark of Illyria inside this to keep her bound when she first appears." He paused and turned back to face the others. "There are two parts to the summoning spell. The first is an incantation that will call to her in the dimension she inhabits now."

"What'll make her pick up?" asked Connor.

"The blood," answered Spike. "Am I right?"

"Yes. Fred's blood must fall on the cruciform of Illyria's mark."

Wesley glanced at Spike, whose eyes had narrowed as he considered the call of blood to blood.

"At this point, Illyria has the power to distort matter and reality," he explained. "Should anything interrupt the spell, she will be able to subvert the binding power of the mark."

"Better make sure nothin' goes wrong then," said Spike, turning to Angel. "P'raps one of us should be in there . . ."

Angel glanced at Wesley. "Wes's call," he said.

"I don't think that will be necessary," replied Wesley. "The fewer people are in there, the less likely it is that anything untoward will happen." He turned once again to the window and watched as Knox put the final touches to the symbols he'd drawn inside the circle. Knox placed five gems, similar to the one Wesley held in his hand, around a pinwheel-shaped Iris segmented like a piece of fruit. Below this he drew two partially open circles, joining them at their bases with an inverted cruciform. "The summoning is completed when I smash this crystal in the iris, opening a portal through which Illyria will rise." Wes held out a pale purple gem, naturally cut in rough crystal form.

"Then what?" Connor broke the silence.

"Then we explain . . ." Angel began.

"Oh, not with the explaining again," Spike interrupted. "You've never really gotten the hang of that."

Angel shuffled his feet and glared at him.

"No one _here_ needs explain anything," said Wesley diplomatically. "Illyria will recognise Knox as her Qwa'ha Xahn. She will be drawn to him. _He_ will be her guide." Wesley held out a hand towards Fred. "Fred, it's time," he said gently."

"Time? It's time?" Fred stared anxiously at Knox who had risen to his feet and was gazing up at her. "No! It's the wrong time. I haven't figured it out yet. I'm not ready . . ."

"Shhh," Wesley soothed. "It's all right. You can work on it later, when you get back to the lab."

"I'm going back to the lab?" she asked. "When?"

"After the ritual. You remember what we talked about earlier? You're needed – now. You'll help us all get back to where we should be."

Fred swung her head and looked at each of them in turn. All, save Lorne who could manage only a grimace, gave her an encouraging smile.

"We can't do it without you, Princess," said Spike, opening the door for her. "You hurt her and I'll knock your bloody block off," he added as Wesley passed him. Wesley shot him an appreciative smile and followed Fred down into the training room.

---------------------

"You can go now, Harmony," said Wesley. "We shan't be needing you any more."

Harmony left the chair she'd been sitting in while guarding Ethan and crossed the room. "Can't I just - you know -stay with you guys? I'd be no trouble, honestly."

Wesley looked up at Angel who shook his head. "Sorry Harmony. But, thank you for all you've done. You've been a great help."

Harmony walked dejectedly towards the door. As she turned the knob, Wesley called, "Harmony! You won't remember anything. You'll be back at your desk when we all return."

"You're sure?" asked Harmony turning and flashing him a smile. "'Cos I'd hate not to be – you know – part of the team. I don't think I could stand being back in the typing pool."

"I'm certain," replied Wesley. "Oh, and one more thing. Would you lock the door when you leave? I don't want Ethan slipping out when my concentration's elsewhere." He glanced over at Ethan, who sat bolt upright in a straight-backed chair, studying the room for an alternative means of escape.

"Okie dokie," replied Harmony brightly. She bounced out of the door and Wesley listened for the click of the lock before he turned his attention to Fred.

"This is the house of death," she said, bitterly as he settled her onto a cushion Knox had placed on the floor beside the summoning circle.

Wesley could feel her trembling as he helped her lower herself into a cross-legged seating position. She gave him a look of pure trust. "I'm not scared," she whispered. "I'm _not_ scared, " she repeated more loudly.

Knox handed Wesley a canvas bag out of which he pulled a short scabbard, a pouch laced with leather, decorated with faded runes worn thin by centuries of hands, and a piece of parchment, flaking slightly from its edges and brown with age.

Knox lit the candles he'd placed around the summoning circle and dimmed the lights with the remote control. He stepped back into the shadows and watched as Wesley prepared himself beside Fred.

The former Watcher removed the knife from its sheath and held it over the flame of the candle beside the iris. "_Shades of the Summoning, purify this blade that it may do thy bidding_." Opening the leather pouch with his free hand, he sprinkled some of its contents into the flame. It leapt towards the blade; smoke curling round the edge in swirling patterns that echoed the runes on the pouch. Tendrils snaked upwards, seeking the Mage who called upon their power, entering his nose, ears and mouth. Wesley threw his head back in a rictus of pain and opened his eyes wide.

"_Illyria, I name thee Ruler of worlds, Warrior and Destroyer of Enemies. Illyria, beloved King, Master of All – come, restore your most impious servants to their proper time and place_." Wesley grasped Fred's hand_. "From the blood of the innocent, she is risen. From the blood of the innocent, she shall rise again._" He pulled the knife swiftly across Fred's palm, opening a shallow gash.

Fred breathed in hard, wincing at the cut. Knox handed Wesley the remaining crystal as Fred placed her hand over the cruciform.

With a final glance at the observation window, Wesley raised his arm. At Angel's slight nod, he held the crystal higher and began the downward sweep. Knox began humming the chorus from 'Zadoc the Priest' to himself, providing a background to final part of the incantation.

"_Old One, Majesty, Unknown Spirit, we seek your guidance. We beseech that you commune with us and move amongst us, here_."

"_God Save the King, Long Live the King_," Knox sang softly.

The blood in Lorne's veins turned to flowing lava, burning his entrails, searing his lungs, as the vision took his breath away for just an instant. _Illyria_! _Oh my God, Fred_! He leapt to his feet and hit the intercom switch. "Stop! Wes!" he shouted. "It'll kill Fred."

Wesley paused at Lorne's warning, his arm frozen in mid arc. Knox hurled himself towards the crystal, knocking it out of his hand, pushing Fred out of the way as he dived for it. Fred curled into the foetal position and moaned. She held out her hands to Wesley. "Don't let them take me," she whimpered.

A millisecond before Lorne moved, Spike watched the blood dripping from Fred's wound. They _needed_ Fred's blood. He still couldn't square the whole idea of Fred being the only innocent one. _Something's not right _"Shit! _We _– he said _we_. _That's_ what he meant!" Spike launched himself at the window.

"_Meant_? We? _Who_ we?" said Angel watching him in amazement.

"He's a bloody Qwa'ha Xahn! That's what he meant back at the hotel, about _needing_ Fred!" yelled Spike. He crashed through the glass, the ensuing explosion sending a myriad of lethal shards cascading down onto the training room floor below.

Angel hesitated. _Making the right choice_. _Spike said it all boiled down to that._ _Fred or . . ._ Angel was only a heartbeat behind Spike through the broken window.

Spike shook the glass from his hair, scooped Fred in his arms and carried her out of the circle. He placed her carefully on her feet beside Ethan and reached out to grasp the waistband of Ethan's pants.

Ethan's eyes widened. "I don't think we know one another well enough," he smirked. "And I _don't_ – not on a first date."

Spike growled and yanked Ethan's shirt free, tearing a strip from the bottom. He began binding Fred's hand, his eyes fixed on Knox, who was grappling with Wesley for possession of the crystal.

Ethan fingered the edge of his torn shirt and opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. _A distraction is just what was needed, _he decided, inching his way round the edge of the room towards the door.

Angel picked up Knox and flung him against the wall. The crystal flew from Knox's hand in a graceful curve, smashing on the ground beside the iris. Thousands of splinters erupted from its centre, sending rainbows of multi-coloured light flashing round the room. Connor, Gunn and Lorne burst in through the door and slewed into slow motion as the colours hit them; the air darkened and thickened.

"You're too late," cried Knox triumphantly. "You can't stop her. Nothing can stop her. She's . . ." He struggled to his feet and pointed at the iris, " . . . _here_." The pinwheel cracked open, its segments turning, separating, and folding back into the edge of the mark. A leather-clad figure rose from its centre, blue hair obscuring the face. Graceful hands swept the curtains of blue aside, revealing ice-cold eyes staring at Wesley from within Fred's features.

"What just happened?" Wesley asked groggily, staggering to his feet. He stared at the apparition. "Fred?"

"It wasn't like this . . ." Illyria stepped forward, tilting her head quizzically at the group gathered around Fred. "How did you worms accomplish it? You ripped me out of linear progression, my time line is torn into shreds and chaos is stitching it back together.

Fred sank to the floor and Lorne dropped to his knees beside her in concern.

"_She_ – is here?" Illyria's voice cut through the rainbows, shattering them into glistening particles that floated to the floor. "How is this possible? You!" Illyria grabbed Wesley by the throat and hoisted him into the air with one hand. "Why have you summoned me here? You cannot save her. Nothing you toe-dirt and half-breeds can do will save her."

"'S that right?" Spike charged towards her.

Illyria dropped Wesley and deflected Spike's attack, flicking him aside and into the wall behind Ethan. Angel followed Spike's example and drove himself low into Illyria's knees. She barely flinched at the impact and threw him effortlessly through the door, smashing it off its hinges and sending a shower of splinters raining down on Connor and Gunn.

Illyria gazed disdainfully down at Wesley. "It impresses me, the power of your Summoning. What is it? Magics?" She turned her gaze on Fred. "Whatever you have done, it cannot save her. To do anything other than bow to my will is inane. And yet you conspire . . ."

Knox stepped into Illyria's line of vision and bowed. "I knew you would come – Highness."

Illyria stared coldly at him. "You are my Qwa'ha Xahn. Yet you would join with these maggots in their attempts to destroy me?"

"Oh, I'm not _with_ them, Majesty. I am your _priest_. I am your _servant_. I am your _guide_ to this world. _I'm_ the one made all this possible," Knox grinned. "I had the sarcophagus teleported here, but would you believe it got stuck in customs. It wasn't supposed to do that." he pointed at Ethan slipping out of the door. "_He_ caused all this. He _changed_ things." Knox watched as Spike picked himself up and staggered to his feet, gathering his strength for another attack, and Wesley crawled painfully across the floor towards the summoning circle, reaching for the purple crystal beneath the iris. "And – um – I think you'd better do something before . . ."

Illyria drew the cruciform mark in the air with her hand. She took hold of Knox's collar and hauled him past Spike, now frozen in mid-charge, through the debris of the shattered door, across Angel's still prone body and down the corridor.

"You will show me," she commanded.

---------------------

"I knew you would come to me," gasped Knox as Illyria dragged him down the corridor. "My life is yours, I worship you."

"Yes, I know." Illyria slowed her pace, allowing him to catch his breath. She cast a disparaging glance over his body. "My last Qwa'ha Xahn was fit for the role."

"Um – yes . . ." Knox looked down at himself. "I've been meaning to work out more, but what with the delay in your arrival and arranging things so that Wesley . . ."

Illyria ignored him. "The Meddler, he too is weak and feeble."

"He is," agreed Knox. "But what he lacks in strength, he makes up for with extraordinary sneakiness."

Illyria focussed her gaze on Ethan as he rushed towards the exit. She held up her hand, creating a whirling portal. "Show me what he did."

------------------

Spike landed on an empty space. "What the bloody hell . . .?"

Angel appeared in the doorway, rubbing the blood from his face where the splinters had gashed the skin. He surveyed the wrecked room and moved quickly to Wesley's side. "Wes? You okay?"

Wesley's anguished face told all.

"No, guess not." Angel turned to the others. "How's Fred?"

Lorne stood up slowly and approached Wesley. "I'm sorry," he said, lowering his head. "I should have known. I could have stopped it if – if I'd known."

Wesley brushed aside the hand he offered to help him rise and crawled over to where Fred lay motionless. "Fred?"

She opened her eyes and gazed at him, tears spilling unchecked over the lower lids. "Wesley," she whispered. "Why can't I stay?" Her eyes glazed and rolled back as she slumped, lifeless, into Wesley's waiting arms. He buried his face in her hair, his shoulders shaking as sobs wracked his body.

Spike broke the silence that followed. "Well, what're we waiting for?" he asked unable to watch any more. He appealed to the others as they too looked on in horror. "Let's go get the bitch." He yanked at Gunn's arm. "_C'mon Chuck_. Payback time."

"Spike!" Angel's cry stopped him before he reached the door. "You're not going _any_where." He turned to the others. "No one makes a move 'til I say so. This isn't over yet."

"This is all my fault!" cried Lorne. He joined Gunn and Connor beside Wesley who sat rocking Fred's lifeless body in his arms.

"It's not your fault," said Angel sternly. "It's no-one's fault. It's what was meant to happen. Illyria came back from our proper time line. That means it's _already_ happened. Ethan's meddling pushed us here – where is he?" he added, his eyes sweeping the room. "Ilyria's gonna get us back . . ."

"You _bastard_!" Spike swung at him.

Angel caught Spike's fist just before it connected with his jaw and held it in a vice-like grip.

"You're willing to let Fred die to save your precious destiny!" said Spike through gritted teeth.

"She's already dead," Angel said quietly. "Nothing any of us can do will change that. We have to stay together. I'm not losing anyone else."

"What – you want us to just stand here and _all _hold hands?" Spike fumed.

"This isn't a seance, Spike," snarled Angel releasing Spike's fist.

"We should stay put," agreed Gunn. "We don't know what Illyria's going to do; we don't know where she went and we _sure_ didn't plan on her pulling a Barry Allen."

Angel looked at him uncomprehendingly.

Gunn checked the others blank looks, "Jay Garrick? Wally— Like she was moving really fast."

"Or we were moving very slow," added Connor.

Lorne put a hand to his head and rubbed his horns. "I really messed up big time, didn't I? That's what always happens with Comeback performances. So now she's unbelievably strong _and_ she can alter time."

"Nothing we can do about that," replied Angel, still holding Spike's gaze.

"So, what _do_ we do?" asked Connor.

Wesley lifted his tear stained face. "We wait."

"For what, exactly?" exclaimed Spike. He pushed his face into Angel's. "You gonna click your heels together?"

Angel stepped back from him and slumped against the doorpost. "We wait," he repeated wearily, "for Illyria to make the next move."

----------------------------------

Knox gazed at Illyria. "I've been waiting so long for this. I've loved you from the moment I saw you. I was eleven. You were timeless, pressed between the pages of the forbidden texts. I would stare at you for hours, locked in my room. My mom thought I was looking at porn."

Illyria stood motionless, staring across the city, scanning the rooftops. "Be silent."

Knox bowed low, touching the glowing mark on his forehead. "Sorry, my bad."

"I once travelled dimensions as I pleased, sailed ships of white vision on platters of air, rode silver wings of storms and light, swam the oceans of nowhere." She turned the glacial eyes to Knox. "And now I am bound to this plane . . . but not this time." Illyria examined her hands and ran them along her arms, her neck, and up to her face. "The Meddler . . ."

"Deserves to be punished, Majesty?" Knox interrupted eagerly.

"Do not presume to know my will," said Illyria icily.

"No, no presuming here, Boss . . . King." Knox stammered. "Making a suggestion, no presumption intended."

Illyria turned her gaze on Knox. "He shall be rewarded."

Knox's face fell. "Rewarded? He messes up, I straighten out and _he_ gets rewarded?"

"He has provided a means of escape," replied Illyria. "I am no longer bound to a single time within the confines of your linear one."

------------------------------

Angel and Spike faced one another across an uneasy silence. Spike finally dropped his eyes from his grandsire. He pursed his lips and nodded his head, slowly formulating an opinion in his head. "S'pose you _did_ make the right choice – when you came through _that_ with me." He glanced upwards at the shattered viewing room window. "You're still a right bastard though."

"_Thanks_, and you're still an impulsive idiot."

A face peered round the doorframe and surveyed the mayhem in front of him. "The Hell God wouldn't play ball, then?" asked Ethan mischievously. "Oh well . . .win some, lose . . ." He disappeared, winking out before finishing the sentence.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Some of the dialogue in this chapter is taken from Origins and Time Bomb.

The Epilogue will follow shortly.


	19. Epilogue: Whose Time is it Anyway?

**

* * *

Epilogue: Whose Time is it Anyway?

* * *

**

"Some people never learn," said Ethan addressing the back of his companion's head.. "What did you expect at a Hellmouth, songs round the campfire? Cleveland's not so different from Sunnydale after all's said and done."

Rupert Giles wiped his hands, dusting off the remains of the vampire he'd just staked from his clothes. He swung round to face the cause of the recent outbreak of _hubbub at the Hellmouth_.

"But I thought _you_ were . . . different that is. But all _this . . ._" he gestured at the carnage strewn across the now-closed Hellmouth and at Andrew tending to several wounded young slayers, "was your idea of a demonstration of your reformed character?" he asked scathingly.

"I'm disappointed in you, Rupert," drawled Ethan. "It'd take a lot more than a tin-pot-army behaviour modification chip to neuter me." Ethan turned and disappeared into the night. "Chaos looks after it's own, Ripper. You should know that by now."

-----------------

Lorne took another gulp of the _Early Bird Special_ and tapped the rim of his glass. "Same again, and don't spare the special."

A hand reached over his shoulder and covered the glass. "No more," said a familiar voice. "You've had enough".

The bartender glowered at Gunn and emptied the cocktail shaker into the slops.

Lorne sighed wearily. "That's where you're wrong, Charles." He gazed into the remaining dregs of green liquid. "I haven't had _nearly_ enough.

Gunn perched himself on the neighbouring bar stool. "Happy Hour?" he asked after reading the notice above the bar. "You're the only customer here, and _you_ don't look too happy to me."

Lorne glanced upwards at the sign. "I think the term Happy Hour should be banned from the English language. There's nothing happy about this hour or any other."  
  
"Oh," said the bartender glumly scanning the empty bar. "So that's where I went wrong. Well, what'dya know?"

"Not so much these days," grimaced Lorne. "But what I _do_ know is I started drinking the moment that I found out that a girl I loved was gonna die." Lorne choked back a sob, threw back the remains of his drink, and held out his glass. "More sea less breeze, this time." 

"Angel wants you to start tailing Illyria, keep tabs on her," said Gunn, shaking his head at the bartender. "He got you a little walkie-talkie and everything." He pulled a small, shiny handset from his pocket and held it out to Lorne.  
  
Lorne looked at it suspiciously. "Illyria's still making the headlines, huh? Front-page news _and_ a walking obituary." He took the proffered device and sighed. "Strange times."  
  
"Strange times," agreed Gunn.

Lorne grimaced and shook his head slowly gazing at the bottom of the discarded tumbler. "Every time I get to the bottom of the glass, I hope that that last drop is gonna take me the distance." He placed a hand on Gunn's shoulder and levered himself upwards. "A simple plan that failed utterly," he finished bitterly. "Which is why I'm gonna heave my toushi off this stool, strap the bells back on, and with a smile and a quip, go back into the belly of a very ugly beast pretending I can help. 'Cause that's what the green guy does."

Gunn threw a brotherly arm over his shoulder and walked him silently to the waiting car.

------------------------------------

Spike crashed into the wall of the training room and crumpled in a heap beside the window.

"You're improving," said Wesley clicking his stopwatch and noting the time on his clipboard.

"Improving?" Spike pushed himself up onto one knee. "How'd you figure? I'm here, head through the wall again, instead of on my feet."

"Three minutes ten seconds between feet on floor and head through wall this time," replied Wesley, placing the clipboard into its wall-mounted wallet.

"Yeah, well that's as maybe, but she's still doing major damage, "complained Spike, using the window pillar to haul himself to his feet, examining his arm as he did so. "Think it's broken," he added frowning.

"Your wrist?" asked Wesley stepping closer to examine it.

"No, the bloody watch! It's _stopped_." Spike spun round. "That'd be _your_ doing," he said indignantly to Illyria.

Wesley turned Spike's wrist over and peered at the dial, fingering the cracked glass. _Spike doesn't own a watch_.

Illyria regarded both men with a disinterested ice-blue gaze. "This is linear time of which you speak. It is of no consequence. Time does not exist until it cracks apart. Know that I am here to stay - whether you measure it or not."

Wesley tilted his head, anxious to learn more about her power over time. "When did it crack?" he asked.

Illyria's eyes glazed. "You are so concerned with dates, with times – with reality."  
  
"Y – e –s," replied Wesley slowly. He scrutinised her face. "Reality's being _changed_."

"Define the change you perceive," said Illyria. "The world is as it is."  
  
"_Not_ necessarily." Wesley turned to leave the room just as Angel pushed open the door. "_Angel_." Wesley nodded in response to the silent greeting. "I'll be in my office, if anyone wants me."

Illyria watched him leave, her face expressionless. Turning her back on the two vampires, she inspected Wesley's clipboard.

Angel drew Spike to one side. "You've got to stop." he whispered.

Spike frowned. "Stop?"

"These sessions."

"Not bloody likely. Almost got her tapped. That time-stop thing is a right pain, but I'm starting to suss out her million-year-old moves. Cheeky minx she is. Changes the rhythm just when I get into it - little jujitsu, then a little Bruce Lee. The bitch has a kick straight from the handbook. She probably wrote it."

"You _have_ to stop," hissed Angel.

"Now hang on," complained Spike. "Only just getting' the gist of it. Testing her has sharpened moves I didn't even know were rusty."

Angel looked across at Illyria. "We're not testing her, Spike. _She's_ testing us."

There was a low tap on the door. It swung back immediately, revealing a tall, well-dressed man who scanned the room. "Oh, sorry for the intrusion, I'm Marcus Hamilton, your new liaison to the senior partners."  
  
"You're what?" asked Angel. "What happened to Eve?" He approached the man cautiously, taking in the cut of his jacket, the quality of the material. This man reeked of money, from the top of his expensively coifed hair, through the scent of his designer after-shave, to the toes of his highly polished Italian-leather shoes.  
  
Marcus didn't flinch under Angel's scrutiny. He tightened his tie and gave a small smile. "Along with her immortality and certain other privileges, Eve has signed over her duties to me." He strolled past Angel and addressed Spike. "She's a walking nightmare, isn't she?" he commented, gesturing at Illyria.  
  
"Well put."  
  
"And yet Mr Wyndam Pryce seem to be the closest thing she has to a friend."  
  
Spiked snorted. "If you knew him, you'd realise just how bloody stupid that statement is."

Hamilton turned back to Angel. "Well, the partners know _her_. Yes," he said at Angel's look of astonishment. "They go way back. They don't want her here. They don't want her_ anywhere_ . . .at all. But they consider this to be your problem, so . . ." He turned to go. "Oh, one more thing. You might tell Mr Pryce that what he's looking for isn't in this dimension, or this time." Hamilton opened the door. "Tell him to consult the books. They have the answers." He gave Spike a smile that never reached his eyes. "Have a nice fight."

Angel and Spike looked at one another for a moment then turned their attention to Illyria. She stood motionless, looking up at the viewing gallery window, contemplating the fine fissures in the glass only she could see. 

Spike sniffed loudly. "Right. So I'll stay here then. Keep an eye on the Blue Meanie."

--------------------------

Angel stepped out through the doorway. He heard the ping of the elevator arriving followed by the swish of the opening doors.

"Hey Dad!"

Angel turned at the sound of Connor's voice and watched him step from the elevator. "What? What're you . . .?" Angel mumbled in shock.

"Dad?" Connor brushed past him and walked towards a middle-aged man standing in the doorway of Gunn's office.

"Yeah. It's okay, son. Come on in. Mr Gunn is going to sort out something for us right now."

* * *

Author's note: Many, many heartfelt thanks to my betas; **bogwitch, onetwomany, Late Starter**. It wouldn't have been possible without you guys. And, without **ceit, kellyhk, estepheia, and paratti**, the research would have been much harder. Bless you all.

To my readers. Some of the dialogue in this chapter is based on lines from 'Origins' and 'Time Bomb'.

That's all folks!

Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for staying with it. Thank you everyone who took the time and effort to give me feedback. I had great fun, some sleepless nights and a whole lot of angst writing this. But, on balance, it has definitely been worth it. I've not only developed as a writer but also as a reader and for that I am truly grateful. Sorry to those of you who wanted a happy ending – not gonna happen. It's not all doom and gloom, though. There are possibilities, even for poor Fred.


End file.
